


The Last shall be First

by ferreuscelo



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Self-Discovery, Slash, Suicide Attempt, Survival Training, league of shadows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake travels to Nepal to die after a devastating loss. There's nothing left in this world for him and close to his final moments, a group of mysterious men rescue him from the desolated mountains he has chosen as his final destination. Without realizing, he learns a little more about life and death from his saviors, who call themselves "The League of Shadows". From the very beginning of his stay, he builds a bond with a high ranked member of such organization, Bane,  with whom he develops a special relationship that leads to something deeper. Something that will change his life forever. </p><p>Beta'ed by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant">Sibilanta</a>, <a href="http://saeadame.tumblr.com/">Saeadame</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinnster/pseuds/Quinnster">Quinnster</a>. Arabic translations by <a href="http://constellation-lyra.tumblr.com/">Talons</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Sibilanta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant), [Saeadame](http://saeadame.tumblr.com/) and [Talons](http://constellation-lyra.tumblr.com/) who have greatly helped into this story. My infinite thanks to all of them for their patience and kindness.

It’s funny how tired you can get when you don’t plan it to be. And how draining it is, when you’re under severe stress, and all you need, all you’re craving is just a few minutes of decent rest. And it never comes. Never.

But that’s the least of John Blake’s concerns right now.

Because everything fits, for once in his life.

The view is gorgeous. The snow gently cascades down the massive faces of the silent stone sentinels, standing proudly under the gray sky. There, in the middle of the landscape stands Gauri Sankar with its peaks like lemon ice-cream, and its dark shadows like an old man’s wrinkles. The best part of this place is the silence. The absolute silence. Sacred silence.

John can see his breath fogging after it leaves his lungs, taking away the little warmth left in his body. He lifts his right hand and flexes his fingers. Only three of them work. The rest are frozen, or dead, who knows. His skin is one beautiful shade of blue, his nails whiter than usual. It is a beautiful sight, despite their decrepit state. It matches the snow and the sky surrounding him. Well, that will be an advantage because his corpse will be harder to spot. The pure air at this height will preserve his body for many years to come and he won’t be one of the ugly corpses lying around. He picked this place precisely to avoid intruders, like a private sanctuary.

With the remaining functional fingers, he raises a hand to his chin, scratching the short beard he’s grown these past few days. It’s an automatic gesture that comes from the days when he actually minded his aesthetic appearance. Thinking about old habits that seem useless right now won’t do any harm at this point. He chuckles at that, and then immediately coughs out the little of warm air left in his body. John can’t feel his limbs at all, there’s frost covering his hair and his throat is extremely parched. But he can see what looks like a smile on that-- yes, that mountain on his right; it looks like it’s been grinning at him for almost an hour.  Or maybe two. Perhaps ten? He can’t tell. There! It did it again. Silly, silly mountain. And his heart. The only muscle in his body that he’s truly aware is still working, beating like a hummingbird’s. But who cares, the view is nice. Robert would have loved it.

_He would have loved it._

Perhaps he’s seeing it. And so, they are seeing Nepal together. Perhaps he’s helping John bear the pain of hypothermia and reach his final destination. Maybe.

His back is not helping, though. He’s sitting on a wool blanket, 17.552 feet above the sea on a desolate mountain face, and his stupid back is trying to make him bend forward to fall on the snow. No. He won’t let his stupid body screw up his final moments. He wants to see the beauty surrounding him and nothing, not even his stupid anatomy, will stop him from it. But it’s getting hard, really hard to make his muscles behave and finally, without any strength left, he falls forward. His head touches the ice and his eyes burn at the contact with the snow. He can’t move his arms to push himself back in position and he’s tired. So, so tired and sleepy.

There’s a _thud thud thud_ in the middle of the deathly silence. Perhaps it’s his heart, dying at last? No. It sounds like… something heavy moving in the snow. He leans back. Finally! He finds the strength to sit up. Through snow covered eyelashes, he can see a shadow blocking the sun. Two shadows.

_“Howa hai.”_

That was a voice. A male voice. Or maybe his imagination. It’s impossible -- here, in the middle of nowhere. It must be an effect of the blood not reaching his brain and playing tricks with his mind, like the smiling mountain in the distance. Or maybe he’s already dead and these are angels. Stupid angels, stop blocking the sun.

_“Tab kwayis, ‘ashan hanwadee lil ma’bad.”_

And the angels spoke weirdly again, in a gibberish tongue he can’t recognize. Yes, there are two angels because the second one has a deep, almost baritone voice.

He’s leaving the ground, levitating. He can tell because the mountains move in front of his eyes and he feels like he’s taller now. He’s ascending with the angels. These angels are dumb, because they put him into something with four legs as if he was a bag, and John’s not flying with them. Or perhaps it’s….

_Oh._

A unicorn. Yes, a unicorn! The angels are carrying him on a unicorn. That makes sense. It’s a bit of a bumpy road but hey, he’s going to heaven, he can deal with it.

There are shadows again, alternating with some brightness and back to darkness. It’s getting darker around him and he can see one of the angels is getting closer. What is it? John asks. Is it the beard? Should I have a shower before I enter heaven?

But there’s no answer. And then, everything goes black.

…

It’s easier to breathe now. The air filters through his nose like a warm summer breeze and his body is surrounded by heat. John smiles in his curled position. His throat is still dry but his lungs are worki-.

_Wait._

John moves his hand, resting close to his hip and his fingers are actually flexing. With difficulty, he wiggles his toes and they are working too. The oddness of being able to move his body is telling him that he didn’t succeed. He frowns and slowly, very slowly, opens his eyes.

It’s quite dark and he’s laying on a very soft surface. He’s covered by something heavy and large, made of dark fur, and he can smell the faint scent of soap on him. Someone seems to have changed his clothes. He rubs his fingers against his palm and notices the warmth emanating from his chapped skin. John can see a warm, flickering light on his right, casting dancing shadows against the dark wood ceiling. But the most important thing is that _he can see_. He’s not in the mountains and he’s definitely still alive.

_He’s still alive._

John takes a deep breath. The only thing he had to do was to die and he failed. He’d failed both himself and Robert.

_Robert._

He opens his eyes again to take in the rest of his surroundings. The style of the room is mostly the same, the ambiance is dark and there’s an oriental air surrounding the place; brown and red furniture with Hindu-influence figures and Chinese characters carved in the wood as well as ornamented dragons. There’s an old-looking desk at his right; a table which John suspects must be for eating meals; two chairs; one armchair; a bookshelf filled with books and what looks like parchment scrolls; and a fire place. The flames make the room seem alive with its brilliance and warmth.

John coughs and a figure stands from the armchair. It’s a man, who lifts a piece of cloth to brush some feverish drops covering John’s forehead and he inspects his face like a complicated document. The man’s eyes are hazel, a strange contrast with his sun-kissed skin which reminds John of the Afghan girl from the infamous National Geographic photograph. He also has short brown hair and an uneven beard. There’s a dark red scarf wrapped around his neck and he has some kind of black tunic and a vest. The man turns around to retrieve something; a bowl with water. He puts a hand under John’s back to help him lean forward and he moves the bowl closer to John’s lips.

The water makes John immediately crave for more. He swallows in large gulps and the man takes the bowl away from him, letting some drops fall on John’s chest.

His head hurts like hell. His blood is running wild in his veins, bringing his body back to normalcy, but the process hurts as if he’s being beaten with clubs on every inch of his anatomy. His eyes feel insanely tired and he’s still sleepy. Really sleepy. The other man moves the bowl closer and John doesn’t hesitates. He drinks and drinks, feeling his throat welcoming the wetness of the liquid. The bowl is taken away from him again and he tries to say something, but his vocal cords are killing him.

“Rest,” says the stranger.

Reluctantly, John leans back on the mattress. There’s no need to argue when his whole body is protesting against moving or attempting anything else. He’ll recover the strength to walk and make his way into the mountains again, and this time he’ll succeed. He will. With almost no effort, he falls asleep.

Some hours later (or days? He can’t tell), someone’s gently shaking him to wake up. He’s still in the same room, dim lighted and warm. He can’t tell what time it is or where he is because the windows are shuttered and darkness engulfs the room. The shaking comes from the same man who gave him water. He turns around and calls to someone. “ _Qa’id.”_

A woman approaches and kneels besides John. She has dark brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, framing the most beautiful pair of deep blue eyes John has ever seen in his life. There’s something fierce in them, something that could bring any man down with their intensity if she ever decided to be a model, that’s for sure. Like the first man, she’s dressed in a black tunic but she has cream colored embroidery around her Mandarin collar. She gives John some time to adjust to his surroundings and then she offers him a faint smile.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” she simply says.

John blinks several times before he tries to coordinate a word coming out of his throat. It still hurts and it’s rough and dry like fried bacon, so all he can do is nod.

“My brothers found you in the mountains at the verge of death.” She keeps her eyes fixed on him, unblinking. “But something tells me your situation was not unplanned.”

John keeps his gaze on hers. There’s a ring in her voice that sounds like English’s not her first language. If she’s as perceptive as she appears, she must be used to seeing men like him attempting to conquer the mountains and eventually, die on them. It’s true that John’s equipment would give anyone the suspicion that it was planned. He had his climbing equipment, a satchel with some food he carried to give him sufficient strength to reach his destination, water bottles, and a picture. An old framed photograph of John and Robert; John’s smiling with his eyes closed, as Robert tickles him.

“I’m Talia. Barsad will take care of you until you gather some strength.” The woman turns around and nods to the man with the red scarf who nods back in return. “Your throat needs more hydration so, for now, you’ll only have water and soup.” She pauses and her closed-lips smile reaches her eyes. “Then we’ll talk.”

From the corner of his eyes, John sees another figure standing at the door. He doesn’t have a clear view, but he can see a long, bare strong arm peeking from the edge of the half-opened door. The man is there, facing outward, probably guarding it. He moves aside and disappears when a short man enters the room carrying a tray with a bowl with something smoking on top of it. Talia moves, giving him some space to approach John and she stands up.  

“Have a good night, Robin John Blake,” she says and without another word, she turns around and leaves. The man at the door disappears, following her.

John opens and closes his mouth, wondering how she could know his name. Then he realizes. Of course. His wallet with his ID and credit cards was tucked with his belongings in the satchel. It’s been a long time since he’s heard his first name spoken and, after facing death, it has an eerie feeling around it.

Barsad approaches and lifts John’s upper body before he places two pillows at his back against the headboard. John feels like an idiot, being manhandled like a baby by grown up men, but no matter how hard he tries to switch position, his muscles can’t find the strength to comply with his wish. The short man, who has some gray hairs that probably make him seem older than he actually is, wraps the hot bowl with a cloth and keeps it close to John’s mouth. He picks a wooden spoon from the tray and raises a spoonful of the brown hot soup to John’s lips. He says something in a language can’t understand and, hoping to get a translation, John looks at Barsad.

“He says that you have to drink with small sips. It’s hot.”

John nods to the short man in thanks and opens his mouth. He groans at the first sip and feels the hot beverage filling his throat and stomach, warming him inside. At the second spoonful, John grows greedy and this costs him several moments spent coughing, his face turning red. The short man sets the bowl down and gently strokes John’s back, trying to ease the pain in his lungs. He grabs the bowl with water and helps John drink from it.

...

The recovery isn’t as fast as he’d imagined. His first days pass between being fed, washed and aided when nature calls. He’s being treated like an invalid and he hates every second of it. Sometimes Barsad leaves the room and another man takes his post, attending John’s needs. It’s never the same man and that doesn’t make John to feel any better because it means that the entire place knows about his disability.

He suspects this place is an institution of sorts, because after Talia asked him to rest and presented Barsad as his caretaker, she’s never stepped back to check on him and only men enter his room. Perhaps there are other women around, but he cannot tell nor ask about it because he can’t speak at all. Until the day his throat heals, and he’s able to say his first words.

“Thank you.”

The man who’s feeding him stops and smiles. Barsad, in the other corner of the room, peeks up. He eyes John then goes back to his own business, sharpening a stick with his knife, seemingly uninterested and simply recording the event to inform the others.

The following day, John articulates more words and starts asking questions.

“Where am I?”

The man feeding him, Thaqib (who told John that his name means ‘shooting star’ in Arabic after he asked about it), sighs deeply and lifts a spoonful of creamy soup against John’s lips. “This is a Temple.”

John swallows the warm food with ease. Since he’d started talking, he’s been provided with soft foods instead of liquids alone. The purée of vegetables he eats every day tastes different and he can recognize different ingredients. Perhaps he’s eating the same food as the rest of the people in the Temple, receiving no preferential treatment because of his current state. He likes to think about that - being treated like an equal despite everything.

John thinks on Thaqib’s words. A Temple. That makes sense, he thinks. A place where men come and go without complaining and remain rather attentive with him suggests an intangible law everybody respects and complies with. And to add to this line of thought, he remembers what Talia said back then: “ _My brothers found you_.”  It fits. John doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been in church or a Temple but he’s no stranger to the benevolence of religious people when people are in need. He also learns that the Temple is located in the mountains and that the origin of the order or cult or whatever it is, goes back hundreds of years ago in history. Just like the monasteries in the Middle Ages.

One day, they open one of the closed windows of the room and John sees daylight for the first time in days. The brightness is painful for his eyes at first, but he soon adapts. The landscape is mostly white and gray. Sometimes there’s a patch of blue sky between the mountains. The imposing moles of rock and their eternally snowy peaks make up most of the picture, with some passing clouds painting the scene.

That’s also the day he gets shaved and becomes something closer to a human being.

The next thing he learns is that Talia’s apparently the only woman in the place. Everybody refers to her as “our sister”. Singular. Perhaps she’s some kind of high priestess or spiritual leader. That raises questions about the nature of this place. Do they hold ceremonies? Do people come and visit the Temple? What do these men do every day? Pray? Meditate?

He starts asking probing questions, and the men answer with short phrases. They begin to avoid bringing up the topic again, distracting John with traditional Nepalese tales or anecdotes from their childhood. John realises that there’s a pact of secrecy among them and eventually gives up asking any further.

Gradually, he starts eating by himself when the muscles in his arms gain some strength and he’s capable of holding the soup bowl in his hands. One night, Barsad eats with him in silence, sitting on the floor by the fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” John starts.

Barsad stops the trajectory of his fork in mid air for a moment, and then resumes eating his meal. He doesn’t meet John’s stare. “For what?”

John puts his bowl down and looks at the flames. “For making you do the things you do for me. And using your room.”

Barsad munches a bite of lamb from his stew. “This is not my room.” He pauses and John waits for another answer. “Eat.”

That’s the closest John will get from Barsad as a way of saying _you’re welcome_ , apparently. Firstly because he’s never mentioned that he’s willingly complying with the trouble of looking after John and secondly, because he avoided the topic regarding his personal space. After that conversation, John confirms his suspicion that Barsad doesn’t like him very much and that he’s just following orders from the higher ranks of the Temple. And John doesn’t dare ask Barsad anything else because he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. After all, the man has been feeding him, washing him, cleaning his shit (literally) and helping him to take a piss. Not willingly, perhaps, but he’s doing it in the end, and John’s in no position to demand anything from anyone at all. In comparison with the rest, Barsad speaks very little, and he only does it when he informs John that he’s going to do something. He’s not talkative as the other men coming and going into the room, nor does he ask John if he feels better or needs something.

Some days later, Talia enters the bedroom and John’s expression changes drastically in surprise. The sun filters through her hair in rich shades of brown and her eyes look almost translucent in the light coming from the window.

“You have some color now,” she states with a grin.

John nods and chuckles. “At least I can go back to the basics of communication.”

John notices the man at the door is back and he’s in the same position he was the first time he talked with Talia. If this wasn’t a Temple, John would think he’s her bodyguard.

“What matters is that you’re with us now,” she says with a tilt of her head. “One minute later and you might never have told the story.”

 _That was the whole point of it_ , John thinks but keeps it to himself. “I’m truly grateful for what you did for me. You and… well, the others.”

The young woman raises one corner of her rose colored lips in a smile. “Are you going to tell me why you chose such a place to die?”

Boy, isn’t she direct? It seems like he should answer that question because he’s a guest, after all. But his business in Nepal is not something he’s willing to discuss with anyone. Yet, he can’t fake his original intentions any more. “Long story,” he answers.

Talia hums in response. “We are all made of stories. There are thousands of stories in this place. Stories of the past, the present and the future.” She pauses and looks out the window. “Death is the end of each story as we know it.” Talia returns her attention to John. “But you’re still here. Which means your story hasn’t ended yet.”

“Not for much longer,” John answers resting his palms on his thighs. There is something in Talia’s speech that slightly annoyed him before he answered, and that could be the fact that such words of wisdom come from the mouth of a young woman, who’s apparently more experienced in life than he is. She can’t be much older than John. He thinks about her possible life experiences -- what would she know about hardships? -- and draws a mental comparison of her against himself.

Well, there are some things to consider. She’s a woman living in the middle of nowhere with a horde of males in celibacy, and like many religious women in South Asia, she was probably taken from her family at a young age.

That definitely gives her some good advantage in the pain field.

“We’ll see,” she answers with a short nod.

A new man at the door speaks to Barsad and they exchange some words with Talia in something that sounds Arabic, the most common language he’s heard among the speakers of the Temple.

“Short visit. I’ll return later,” she says with a smile. Talia stands up and gestures Barsad to follow her. At the door, she speaks with her ‘bodyguard’ and leaves. The man remains there, behind the half-opened door.

John leans on his side for a better angle to look at the partially concealed figure. There’s not much to see. He takes glimpse of the lines of a black tunic sleeve (probably the same kind as the rest of the people of the Temple) against the muscular arm and something that looks like cargo pants covering his left leg. He can’t see the man’s face or head, though. John stretches further and grabs the black fur to push his hips left along the bed, because his legs are still not cooperating. He can see something now. A pair of bands or straps on the man’s head but he can’t even figure if it’s a hat or something remotely close to it.

John reaches the end of the bed and there’s no space left to grab. He’s pushed himself too far away and his hips are balancing his body at the edge of the bed. When he’s finally seeing the outlines of the man’s nape, he collapses against the floor. His torso hangs from the bed like a broken doll while his knees remain up, under the covers.

“… fuck!”

The man at the door moves and John can see his feet take a step before they retreat back to their original position.

“Help. Please?”

The man at the door calls someone and as he speaks in Arabic, John can finally hear him. That’s the exact moment when John recognizes that voice. Yes, _that_ voice. The same deep voice he heard when they rescued him at the mountains.  

“Hey, you! You!” John calls, but there’s no answer. The little he could see of him is now gone and two of the men that usually help John enter the bedroom. They grab him by the waist and chest and put him back on the bed. Barsad arrives shortly afterwards and he dismisses them. His chance to meet Talia’s mysterious ‘bodyguard’ is gone.  

“Who was that? The one at the door,” John asks.

Barsad rearranges the fur and sheets covering John’s body. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Wait here. And don’t move.” Yet another answer that leads to nowhere. Asking Barsad probably wasn’t the most intelligent choice because the man is as talkative as a tomb. He will have to ask Thaqib later. Barsad leaves John alone once again.

The days are getting longer since he’s not sleeping as much as he did when he was first found, and the lack of activity is starting to wear his nerves thin. One afternoon, John directs his attention to the bookcase nearby and tries to read the spines of the books contained there. Some are written in Chinese or Japanese, others in Arabic, Nepali, Hindi, Spanish and, much to his surprise, English. Some look pretty worn out but the majority, seem to be kept in good condition. Most of those he can recognize look like they are war, fighting and strategy-themed, while others are poetry and novels, according to Barsad. John asks him to retrieve him one of them in English and hesitantly, the bearded man does as he’s requested.

It’s Polyaenus’ _“Stratagems.”_ A collection of examples of military stratagems from Greek and Roman history, written by a Macedonian author that describes the events that every general went through during their campaigns. It proves to be an interesting read, like a novel of sorts. There’s a lot of history and pure strategy used on the battlefield and on society, taking advantage of the many alternatives you could use to coerce people to do as you wish. Some for example, are personal interpretations of what the Oracle would say and how that affected the beginning of a battle. Quite Machiavellian, yet fascinating because it’s an accurate psychological study on human behavior and its flaws. Did Barsad read this? Possibly. But he has told John that this is not his room so its occupant must have.

Reading the bedroom’s owner’s books is like having a silent dialogue with him. It makes John learn a little about him and his personal views about life, philosophy and conceptions of the world. Of course, there’s nothing to be taken for granted because all books are open to personal interpretation. But now he’s intrigued. Even after he started moving his legs with the help of Barsad’s aid, he stays confined in the room, reading all day long and that makes him want to meet the original owner even more.

Barsad starts giving him short exercises to help John to recover his muscle strength. John sits on the bed and slowly raises and lets his legs fall, one at the time. He stretches and flexes his calves twice a day, and so it goes for a couple of days until Barsad progressively gives him more tasks to gain more movement.

He’s also eating a variety of foods now. His favorite dish is what they call _Dal bhat_ , a dish that consists on steamed rice and cooked lentil soup _dal_. They cook it with onion, garlic, ginger, chili, tomatoes and other things John can’t even pronounce but tastes fucking delicious. Every time he sees the tray his mouth waters and he never leaves a single grain of rice remaining in the bowl.

One morning, Barsad comes with breakfast and John eats seated at the table.

“I’d like to go out,” John informs after drinking his pomegranate juice.

Barsad, as usual, doesn’t bother to look at him and continues eating. After some moments of silent consideration, he raises his glance to meet John’s. “I’ll take you out after you’re done with your exercising.”

John curves his lips in a grin of satisfaction and finishes his meal. He does as he’s told, trying his best not to hurry his working out session with the excitement over getting out because, hell, he won’t hurt himself and go back to square one.

He steps past the bedroom’s door for the first time during his stay and he’s delighted with what’s around him. The wooden figures and engraved dragons are present, like in his bedroom, with more intricate designs, and there are some small shrines with lighted candles. He can also see that he’s standing on the second level of the complex and below, at the ground level, there’s a wide, clean space with three squares at the opposite wall, filled with soil and burning embers. The huge hall is naturally lit. There are some large windows on the ceiling that can be pulled from the second level to open or close them at will. At his right, there’s a large fireplace with a wide chimney. John steps closer to the veranda, and looks down to discover a series of open doors connected to the base level, probably leading to the kitchens and other areas. On John’s level, there are other doors that seem to lead to private chambers, like the one he’s occupying.

The sound of footsteps disrupts the quietness of the space below when a group of men in different garments start gathering around the central arena. They chat with each other until an old man in black tunic similar to Barsad’s calls them and everyone goes silent. John leans with his forearms resting on the wooden balustrade with mild interest as the men line up in parallel rows and proceed to form a square, keeping a fair distance between each other.

The old man says something loud and short, and the men answer with a loud shout. They take one step forward and raise their right arms up above their heads, with their forearms parallel to their shoulders, all in perfect synchrony. The man at the front of the group says something else and the men switch positions with another shouted response.

“What are they doing?” John asks.

“First class of Gorkha Kukri,” is Barsad’s simple answer.

John turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “And that is…?”

Barsad sighs in annoyance. “Close combat fighting. They are learning the basics. They will be training with weapons later.”

Weapons. John stops. Why would a Temple need combat training with weapons? The strategy texts found at his bedroom and the scene below give John the suspicion that this is not a ‘religious’ Temple but something else.

“What are they training for?” asks John.

Barsad stops observing the men to look at John. “Discipline. Strength.”

John has to admit that it sounds somewhat logical. Martial arts aren’t truly meant to kill anymore. They once were, but nowadays people do martial arts like Tae Kwon Do or Karate for the sole purpose of working out or finding some inner discipline or some new age shit. It’s cool as long as it fills you with something you’ve been searching for a long while, but this kind of thing isn’t John’s cup of tea. He admires others for submitting to the training and actually being good at it though. But he can’t think about learning something new. Not when his future has narrowed down to the existence of a lonely mountain in this place. A mountain that’s waiting him to fulfill his final days.

Without waiting for permission, John walks down the corridor aiming for the stairs. On his way, some of the men who attended to him days ago nod to him, and John answers in the same polite way. There are others John doesn’t recognize and they send curious glances at him before returning to their tasks. There’s a delicious smell coming from an adjacent room - the kitchen most probably.

When he steps onto the base level, nobody turns to look at him. The men following the old man’s directives are deep in concentration. John takes his time in getting a good look at his surroundings.

“Do they live here?” John asks Barsad, standing some meters away the center of the action.

“Yes. It is required,” he answers.

“All of you live here?”

“Hm.”

“Are they all from the country or…?” Since Barsad had answered before, John pushes his luck and waits for an answer that never comes.

Great.

Most of the men moving in the corridors hurriedly carry trays with food, sweep the floors or talk with each other. They are younger than those John has met these past few weeks. Barsad explains that they are beginners, required to do things to gain respect among their peers before they reach a higher level of status with the Temple. John nods at this and watches them running here and there with silent, quick steps. He had seen something like this when he traveled to Japan. They are like Japanese maids in a traditional Ryokan, polite and reserved in their manners and ready to serve when required.

As he watches a young man carrying many dishes on his tray, balancing them and trying not to trip against anything, he notices someone is staring at him, resting his broad shoulders against one of the columns. The first thing that shocks John is that he’s wearing a metal mask with tubes and straps that keep it in place on his bald head. The second thing he notices, are the cargo pants.

_That man._

Without tearing his eyes from him, John tilts his head to ask Barsad. “Who’s he?”

His companion follows John’s line of view. “He’s a… what you’d call a teacher of the Temple.”

John slightly raises both eyebrows. The man is a mountain of muscle beneath the black fabric of his shirt. He has an imposing body compared to the rest of the men of the Temple. Definitely a martial arts master.

“He’s the owner of the room you’re occupying.”

John opens his mouth to articulate a word but he fails. He’s the man who snatched him away from the hands of death. The one John’s been having his ‘book dialogues’ with. The one who put John’s comfort before his own, even if he did it following orders, like Barsad. The same man who seems quite important for Talia to keep him around every time John has seen her. He owes him quite a lot and he needs to express it.

Without even asking for a name, John decidedly walks towards the man and notices he switches position and looks away.

“Um… hi,” John starts, staring at the man’s metal mask. “I just wanted to thank you for…”

But he never gets the chance to finish. The massive man avoids his stare and walks away, heading towards one of the young men sweeping the floors and then, he proceeds to address him. John takes a step to follow him, but Barsad’s hand on his shoulder prevents him from going any further.

“Did I say something wrong? Does he speak English?” asks John.

Barsad lets go of him and shakes his head. “You don’t have the right to talk to him.”

John frowns and diverts his eyes from the man’s back to Barsad. “Pardon?”

“He’s a teacher of the Temple. He will only talk with his students and other members of the League. You’re not part of this.”

John gives him a skeptical look. “What, you and the others can talk to me, but he can’t?”

“Because our Leader allows it. You can’t talk with anyone else but us.” Barsad grabs John’s arm and makes a gesture with his head to follow him. John unwillingly follows but he takes a moment to throw a final look to the giant in black clothes.

“Can I at least know his name?”

Barsad rests a hand over John’s back and gently pushes him towards the stairs.

“Bane.”

That night, John repeats his name as he reads the yellowish pages of the book he’s holding in his hands. He feels a sense of honor and admiration building inside him. He has a face to associate with the books now, a face that strengthens his connection with the man who’s sacrificing his privacy for John’s sake.

_Bane._

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** References to books, translations and other special featured items:**
> 
> \- Most of the titles of the chapters (with the exception of first 4 ones) of this story are based on Pink Floyd's lyrics from ["Eclipse."](http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/html/eclipse-dark-lyrics.html) I wrote the whole fic plan while riding a bus on a summer with this song in my MP3 player and yes, it perfectly matches the idea I have of this story.  
> 
> \- _[Gauri Sankar](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gauri_Sankar)_ : is a mountain in the Himalayas, the second highest peak of the Rolwaling Himal, behind Melungtse (7,181m). The name comes from Sanskrit for the Goddess (Gauri) and her Consort (Shankar).
> 
> \- _“Howa hai."_ - > Saudi Arabic for "He's alive."  
> \- _“Tab kwayis, ‘ashan hanwadee lil ma’bad.”_ - > Saudi Arabic for "Good. We'll take him to the temple."  
> \- _“Qa’id.”_ - > Saudi Arabic for "Leader."  
> I'm specifying here that these are Saudi Arabic translations because they differ in style and vocabulary from other dialects. My head canon is that The Pit was located there, thus I wanted to make it as accurate as possible. 
> 
> \- _[Polyaenus’ “Stratagems"](http://www.attalus.org/translate/polyaenus.html)_ : a book by the 2nd century Macedonian writer Polyaenus divided in 8 parts that contains an account of the stratagems of the most celebrated Greek generals, the seventh of those of foreign people, and the eighth of the Romans, and illustrious women. 
> 
> \- _[Dal bhat](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dal_bhat)_ : one of the Nepal's most popular dishes. 
> 
> \- _[Ryokan](http://www.japaneseguesthouses.com/about/ryokan/index.htm)_ : is a type of traditional Japanese inn with tatami-matted rooms, communal baths, and other public areas where visitors may wear yukata and talk with the owner.


	2. Speak

As exciting as it is being in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of monks, John doesn’t want to think about anything. Correction, he can’t think about anything. Being able to walk (or at least, make it past the bedroom door) is bliss because he can finally move and go take a shit on his own without depending on others. But, on the other hand, he knows he’ll need more time to recover to face the mountains again. One of the first things he’ll do then is trace a path to the most desolate spot, in order to not be found again by anyone. Like these people did. So he’ll need maps, because he doesn’t have his phone with mobile internet anymore. He threw it into a trash can in town before his climb. It doesn’t seem like there’s internet at this height and he didn’t ask about it because, well, what’s the point of knowing what’s going on with the rest of the world now? And if he asks for maps, he’s positive they will grow suspicious and try to stop him from continuing his mission.

So, for now, it all comes down to eating and exercise.

John starts asking his caretakers what they do every day, just to have a topic of conversation. He learns that their days start at about three or four in the morning, with breakfast - when the sky is dark as coal and some are still drooling after a few hours of decent sleep. All that varies from one storyteller to another. Sometimes it’s fighting, other times it’s training, or just simply spending spare time in the company of others. But no one gives him a definite answer and that must have something to do with what Barsad told him: _“You’re not part of this.“_

So he doesn’t ask again and continues minding his own business. Which is, right now, to get his body back in gear.

One afternoon, Thaqib comes to his room with a chess set and John’s embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t know how to play it. It wasn’t something he was particularly fond of at the orphanage. Playing board games was for brainies. And he’d had his share of the other kids at school picking on him because he liked to visit the library frequently. He’d enjoyed reading - still does, of course. But visiting the library meant he could escape from the dull world surrounding him every day. His days followed a basic repetitive routine: breakfast, school, lunch, back to the orphanage, homework, playing, catechism classes, holy mass, chores, dinner, sleep. Every day, over and over again for eighteen years. And the only sport he was decent at was basketball and swimming. So no time for board games.

Thaqib offers to teach him. John learns the individual piece movements quickly, but he fucks up every time he has to remember some rules, like castling. And of course, he gets his ass kicked every time he wants to be a smartass and attempts to checkmate in a very poor, foolish movement. But Thaqib is patient and their afternoons are soon extended to evenings. It is something that apparently pleases Barsad because it means John will keep his mouth shut. One night, he invites Barsad for a game, and - surprise, surprise - Barsad says no.

“Do you want me to ask Talia to set you free from me?” John asks, sitting on the floor in front of the chess board.

“You’re not one to tell her what to do,” the bearded man answers from the armchair, flipping the pages of a book he took from the bookcase.

“I’m not ‘telling’ her anything. I’d suggest it because I’m sure you have more important things to do than staying here locked with me.” John grabs the Queen from the board and plays with the figurine between his fingers.

Barsad doesn’t answer. He looks very interested in whatever he’s reading and John doesn’t have to be a psychic to know that he’s silently agreeing with him. John takes the chance to take a better look at Barsad. His eyes always look tired, but John’s realises that that’s just how they’re shaped. His eyes remain exactly the same, with very tiny wrinkles framing his face when he smiles.

The first time John saw Barsad smiling, he almost flipped out. John was resting his shoulder against the frame of the bedroom’s door waiting for Thaqib and his chess lessons. He spotted Barsad talking to an elder and _bam_! The other man said something that caused the grumpy caretaker to laugh and oh god, curve his lips upwards into a smile.

And if you ignore the fact that the man has the sense of humor of a soap bar, he has a beautiful smile.

But unfortunately, he couldn’t continue watching the scene because his favorite chess adversary showed up and dragged him back inside. The image of Barsad smiling in the presence of another mortal was bizarre. All John gets from this man are just empty, bored faces, annoyed expressions, and irritation.

At the beginning, John felt sorry for him, for having to be the one in charge of all the things involved with his recovery. But, after some time, as his relationship with his other regular visitors changed, John began to feel quite bothered by the man’s presence. Because the bearded man didn’t give a damn about trying something different. Who knows, perhaps they could chat about something and try to make their time together less painful for one another. But the other man didn’t want to cooperate, so fuck it. John is growing tired of trying to be nice.

“I could try, you know,” John says, in hopes of continuing the conversation and reaching an agreement. If Barsad goes along with this, things would be easier.

“You will _not_ waste my sister’s time with one of your childish demands,” he answers.

John frowns in frustration. “I’m just being logical here. If you can’t stand this situation, then I’m not planning on torturing you _or me_ , any further.”

Barsad doesn’t answer, and perhaps that’s the best for now because there’s no need to let this escalate if Barsad has to continue babysitting. If he wants to keep this shit going, fine, he can have it his way. John will be out soon and the original occupant of this room will return to normalcy.

_Oh, right. Bane._

Sometimes he forgets that he’s still residing in the large man’s place. Sleeping in his bed, reading his books, warming himself up by his chimney, eating, showering… living. And when his name comes to John’s head, he can’t repress this feeling of guilt for invading another person’s private space like this for such a long time. Personally, if the roles were reversed, John would be out of his mind knowing someone was touching his things.

“When am I going to leave this room?” John asks, putting the chess pieces carefully in the box.

“When the leader commands it,” answers Barsad with his nose deep into the book he’s holding.

“Don’t you people have guest rooms? I’m bugging that poor man by taking his place and… where is he sleeping now?”

“You’ll remain here until our sister decides to move you out. Now,” Barsad lowers the top of his book a little to throw a glare to John, “Silence would be preferred.” The man moves back to his original position, but, before he continues with his reading, he adds, “Thank you.”

John bites his cheek and shakes his head, going back to putting the pieces in the box. There might be some things he can’t understand about this place yet, but talking to Barsad is not helping at all. And tightening his grip on the rope of the man’s patience further will only lead to Barsad snapping at John for merely breathing. He doesn’t want more troubles with these people. They’re helping him for no reason and he should just be quiet about the whole thing. The rest of the men seem to be reserving their opinion on his staying at the Temple. So, considering all this, he’ll let Barsad do whatever he wants.

At least for now.

Because John’s one hell of a stubborn man. And he’s just had a fantastic idea.  

…

“… but Lycurgus would not put the sons of Spartans in charge of purchased or hired tutors, nor was it lawful for every father to rear or train his son as he pleased, but as soon as they were seven years old, Lycurgus ordered them all to be taken by the state and enrolled in companies, where they were put under the same discipline and nurture, and so became accustomed to share one another's sports and studies.” John makes a pause and blinks. “Seven years old. Dude.”

Since Barsad’s not going to talk and he’s not going to leave the bedroom either, John will do everything in his power to make the man get sick of him. An angry Barsad is John’s golden ticket out of the man’s presence, it being the perfect excuse to ask Talia to remove him from his company. This plan, of course, might be a total failure because we’re talking a man who’s supposely a monk or whatever the hell he is, and he might have some high level of patience. But apparently Barsad skipped patience 101 class. Because half an hour later, he thumps his fist on the dining table. He looks straight at John who’s lying on his stomach on the bed with a book propped open in front of him.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” John asks innocently with a fake gentle smile. The kind of smile whose sole purpose is to wear Barsad’s nerves thin. It looks like it’s going to be John’s winning card.

“Whatever you’re attempting to do, it’s not going to work.” Barsad clenches his fist on the table.

“Huh? I’m just reading. I don’t see the problem with that.”

“Do it in silence.”

“I can’t, actually.” John shrugs his shoulders with a bogus conviction.

Barsad’s furious eyes move from the book to John’s eyes and back. “You’ve been doing it for the last couple of days, you can still do it.”

“Yeah but, you see, I’ve discovered that if I read it out loud, the ideas come clearer to me. It’s like studying, you know?” John raises both eyebrows and continues smiling, drawing his characteristic cheeky dimples on his face, the ones Robert loved. “Hm, speaking of which!” he says, levering himself up on both elbows. “Do you guys have to read this too? I mean, study.”

Barsad clenches and unclenches his fist. It makes John think the man must be making an extreme effort to not get up and punch him. “Yes.”

“All of these?”

“No.”

“What about this one?”

“Yes.”

“What about that one?”

“No.”

“And that one?”

“ENOUGH!” Barsad snaps, and his roar makes John jump, because hell, that was freaking loud. He’s sure the people outside, walking in the corridor right now, must have stopped at the man’s sudden outburst.

_Good._

“Woah there, what’s wrong? I was just asking a question.” John puts his palms in front of him defensively. He has to keep his act together, drive the man nuts with the precision of a Swiss army knife.  

“I’m here because my leader ordered me to take care of you. That is all. I’m not your book reading companion, nor your information stall or social acquaintance.” The bearded man massages his temples and leans over the table, frustrated. “It’s not my fault you have to deal with me. I’d be glad to go but I can’t. I just can’t, get it?”

John notices something different in Barsad’s voice, as if there’s something other than mortification and frustration. He’s insanely tired of suffering the torment of dealing with John, that’s for sure.  

John carefully speaks again, testing the ground. “I told you I can ask Talia to set you free. I just need to-.”

“Drop it.”

John bites his lip. There’s surely a difference for Barsad between taking care of one of his brothers and doing it with a total stranger who’s not worth the trouble. Like John.

John rests his right temple against his fist. “I’m sorry.”

Barsad remains silent, probably ignoring him. He goes back to his armchair and sits. His stare gets lost in the flames of the fireplace and John stops reading aloud. He shouldn’t be sorry, really. Yet he can’t help but empathize with his caretaker, being stuck in this situation and putting his own daily life on the back burner. Staring at the walls and the ceiling all day long, bringing John’s food every day, making sure he eats, helping him with the exercises, taking his clothes off to wash them…

Until, one day, he disappears and doesn’t come back to John’s room at all. John asks Thaqib if something bad happened to Barsad; the young man answers that their sister asked him to return to his normal duties because John’s feeling better. He’s quite satisfied with this. Not only because he is finally free from Barsad’s daily presence, but also because the other man has been released from being at John’s service as well. He feels more at ease now, not having someone stuck with him twenty four seven.

Two days pass and even though he can go outside with some difficulty, John remains between the four walls of Bane’s room. The place gives him some sense of stability, in a crazy Freudian way. A place where he knows that every item in this room is meant to be in that place and only there, and it won’t move tomorrow. Moving means _adapting_ to new things, and that carries attachment, which is far from his goal. He’s not feeling so bad anymore for that man, Bane, because if they haven’t kicked John out yet then it mustn’t really bother him so much. All is cool with the world.

But then, one morning, he laughs at a passage from Don Quixote and turns to make a comment to Barsad, only to find a stream of sunlight falling on an empty armchair.

He tries to engage those who are bringing his meals as much as possible. He takes full advantage of Thaqib’s chess lessons offer, to the extent of requesting for the man way past midnight.

What John couldn’t see coming is when he starts having problems to sleep. But it seems Barsad’s absence is a contributing factor to the matter.

…

Talia comes to visit him one chilly afternoon and he’s able,  for the first time in days, to have a decent talk with her without looking like an invalid on the bed. The first thing John does when she enters is look past the door, but Bane’s not there. She requests tea for both and they talk about John’s progress and how much he’s enjoying the books in the bookshelf. Bane’s books, he says. Talia smiles.

“You seem to have a great interest in them. Any books in particular?” she asks.

“None, really. They’re all quite interesting. At least the ones I can read. There are some like these,” says John turning around and running his fingers on the leather spine of a book with Arabic calligraphy, “that have gorgeous illustrations inside and I don’t know what they’re about but they are really beautiful.” He smiles, staring at the golden lines forming the title.

“Ah.” Talia moves her chair to sit besides John and pulls the book out of the shelf. She places it on her lap and flips through the yellowish fragile pages slowly, taking in the gorgeous illustrations of men, women, castles and camels in blue, gold, red and black. “Ibn Hazm. This is a beautiful classic. A rare edition, too.”

John purses his lips and takes a good look at the book. It looks like an antique and it must be worth a little fortune. The rarest edition John ever had, was a copy of Heminghway’s _For whom The Bells Toll_ signed by the author in ninety fifty one. He’d casually stumbled upon it in one of the charity boxes they’d received at the orphanage and he kept it under seven locks his whole life. Before travelling to Nepal, he donated it to Gotham’s Public Library and the librarian who received it was at about to collapse when she saw the signature. Letting such precious treasure go was part of getting rid of everything that tied him to Gotham. He sold his apartment and donated most of his things to different orphanages, but not at the place he grew up because he’s never been fond of goodbyes, and he certainly wasn’t going to start doing it.

Bane’s collection seems truly valuable. It looks like he has a good taste in his selection and takes special care of them.

John points to the book in Talia’s lap. “What is it about?” he asks.

“Poetry,” she answers. And before John can say anything else, she stops at a certain page and traces the elegant Arabic characters with her fingertips. “ _I have observed that love begins, when some poor fellow for his sins, thinks, it is thrilling, ever so, to gaze on cheeks where roses glow_.”

John listens to her, marvelling at the instant translation and the way she lowers her voice, putting emphasis on the musicality of the poem. “That was nice.” Talia puts the book on his lap and John runs his thumb over the aged edges of the page. “I wish I could read these.”

The woman chuckles and shrugs. “That could be arranged.”

The idea sounds great. He’s always wanted to learn as many languages as he could but life always got in the middle of his plans. Now he has the time to do all those things as he waits for death to come so, why not? But there’s something in that suggestion that bugs him. “Why are you all being so nice to me?”

Talia narrows her eyes with apparent amusement. “Do you always question the kindness of strangers?”

“Not precisely. I just can’t understand this kind of hospitality. I’ve never seen it before. Except at the orphanage, and that was partially because they have a duty with the city.” John remembers how much care Father Reilly exhibited every time a new kid showed up at St. Swithin's to make him feel as comfortable as possible. But as John grew up, he saw it as a habit, and the ‘magic’ of feeling special would last just a couple of weeks or months. Then, you were just another one in the bunch.

“You grew up in an orphanage?” she asks, crossing her legs on her chair.

John nods and reaches for a glass of water on the table to take a sip. “Until I was eighteen. But, the point is… agh.” John leaves the glass on the table again and decides for something simple. “I know that it’s to be expected of religious people to think that killing yourself is sinful.” The truth is that John hates it when people interfere with others’ wishes, especially when they reach a point where their goal is to die and cut off  their suffering. So John has to find the words that could form the idea without sounding too rash.

“Not precisely,” she answers flatly.

John takes his attention from the book and looks at Talia, surprised. “No?”

“There are different ways to appreciate life, and sometimes you’re ready to die for the good of others. That’s laudable.” The woman drums her graceful fingers on her knee. “But futile if used unwisely.”

John wasn’t expecting that at all. “So you agree with suicide.”

“I understand the need to sacrifice yourself for a cause,” she answers back.

“Then why did your people bring me here if they saw that, well, I was obviously waiting there for my death?” John asks with some bitterness in his voice. Because he was even _enjoying it_ , in a way that many would truly find sick and twisted. But it was his moment, his own goddamned moment. “What if there was a higher cause behind my decision to die?”

Talia offers him a lopsided smile. “So you’re implying that your motivations weren’t that important.”

“I can do with my life whatever the hell I want,” John states defiantly, and he realizes he’s sounding like a jerk but that doesn’t prevent him from continuing. “Why couldn’t they just leave me there and carry on with whatever they were doing?”

“Because my brothers probably saw something worth saving,” she answers with a firm tone in her voice.

“How could that be when they didn’t know jack shit about me?” John clears his throat and he knows he has to stop with the gratuitous rudeness, “Sorry.”

The woman doesn’t flinch at John’s vocabulary. She’s probably not a saint either, but being surrounded by fairly polite people (with the exception of Barsad, but that’s a whole different story) makes John self-conscious about cursing like he normally does. She continues then, unaffected. “There are some things that don’t require a logical explanation, John. But I trust my brothers and if he made the decision to bring you to us, I can tell you that your life is not meant to be ended yet.”

 _He_.

All the roads apparently lead to that man, Bane. John has very little information to draw conclusions yet, but something tells him that it was Bane the one who made the call on John’s life. “That was quite selfish. I have my reasons for doing this.”

“And you’ll attempt it again, we know.” Talia looks at the window and nods. “But, in time, you’ll understand that your place is not on top of that mountain but among the rest of us mortals down here.”

“Huh.” With a click of his tongue, John shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “So you’re going to convince me. Good luck with that.”

Talia remains silent for a moment. “I’m seeing you right now and I can’t possibly find a reason for you to want to end your life, John.”

John turns both palms upwards, as if he’s just found the loophole to the whole argument. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. What could you see in someone you’ve never met before?”

“From the little I’ve learned about you, I can give you a good number of reasons. A thirst for knowledge,” answers Talia with a shrug of her lean shoulders. “That says much about your conviction to achieve your goal. Nobody who’s determined to die cares about learning chess, languages or commenting on texts with his caretaker.”

That must have been Barsad. Or Thaqib. Or all of them together. But being ‘entertained’ it’s just something to do to pass time until he gets his ass out of here. “Perhaps you omitted the part where I might be bored out of my mind. Once I’m strong enough, I’ll leave you people to continue with your lives. Seriously, my life is not that important for anyone to be worried about.”

Talia reaches for the brown mug with green tea on the table. “Who’s life was, then?”

“Who…?”

“The one that hurt you.”

The woman’s quick to read other people. With practically nothing to work with, she’d figured out there was someone in John’s life that had a crucial role in his decision.

John lets out a mix of a huff and a laugh. “Why must there be someone?”

“Because you mentioned ‘anyone’. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that leads me to think someone important in your life wounded your heart with such force that you couldn’t bear it anymore.” Talia curls both hands around the warm mug, expectantly.

Now John laughs and rubs his eyes with his fingers. “This is ridiculous.”

Talia keeps pushing. A fearless woman, John has to admit. “A friend? Family? A lover? Because I believe said person wouldn’t appreciate the idea of you ending your life with-“

“He killed himself.”

Talia stops and leans back in her chair, watching him. Perhaps it’s John’s defensive and emotional state right now, but he could almost see a grin of satisfaction in the woman’s face.

“Suicide. My boyfriend,” says John, and his eyes fall to the floor.

It’s been a long while since he’s talked about Robert with someone else.

After the funeral, some of his friends, mostly Robert’s, avoided the topic to cut the agony of John’s grieving. But that hadn’t helped much. Hadn’t helped at all. Because the house was still empty, Robert’s clothes were still in the closet, and his keys were in the ashtray. The lights of the house were off. The engagement card still lay on the dining table. His suit still hung on a perch. And John, had sat back on their bed and stared blankly at the windows for hours.

Waiting _._

But Robert would never come back home ever again.

John’s eyes move to the book in his hands and Talia remains silent by his side. Probably the best thing the woman could do right now. The silence is uncomfortable, but welcomed from John’s end. Because John knows that if he says anything else, he’ll start cracking little by little, letting those memories escape from the vault of his heart. A place he’s been guarding with every inch of strength he has left in his body after Robert’s departure. And he won’t let it out into the open.

“There’s still more ahead for you, John.”

John leaves his meditations to look at Talia, staring back at him with her calm sapphire eyes.

“I lost my mother when I was a child and my father wasn’t aware of my existence. I was left completely alone, until someone decided that I was worth the trouble of saving.” Talia takes the book from John’s grasp to put it back on the shelf. “Perhaps you haven’t found the one who believes in you that way. Perhaps he’s waiting out there for you.”

John fights back the impulse to let his eyes water up and he rubs them with a hand. He takes a deep breath and looks away because he can’t allow himself to be this vulnerable with someone he hardly knows. But now, his doubts about Talia’s maturity are gone. There’s a lot more to see in her, that’s for sure. She’s no innocent virgin with a pretty face and pretty words. She’s a leader; that word suits her well.

“Come with me. Let’s take a walk,” she says leaving the chair and offering her hand.

They slowly make their way to the kitchen where she introduces him to the cooks. John asked her to. It’s not like congratulating the chef of a fancy restaurant for the food, but more like personally thanking them for preparing the tastiest meals he’s ever had in his life. Perhaps everything tastes great now because being closer to death enhances all the experiences. Whatever.  

Talia asks John about his childhood and parents, and he tells her about how they died in a car accident when he was three and how his life was spent from one foster home to another. It feels quite easy to talk to her but she tells him close to nothing about her own childhood, diverting the topic back on John. The little he knows about Talia is that she grew up isolated from other children and that she only had one friend in her life. Still does, she says.

Some men bow respectfully to her as they pass and John wonders what kind of power she has in this place to make so many respect her like this. Some even seem rather protective around her, like Barsad.

“You know, if I weren’t at a temple, I’d say you’re a corporate business woman ruling your staff with an iron fist,” John comments as three young men pass by them carrying trays with food.

“A harsh insult if I ever heard one,” she answers with a chuckle.

There’s a mood in the air that gives John the feeling their dialogue has changed over the last few days into something more relaxed. And he doesn’t see any ominous signs to prevent him from asking something he’s been meaning to inquire since he first opened his eyes in Bane’s room.  “I never asked you before but… what do you people do in here? What’s the purpose of this place?”  

Talia narrows her eyes just an inch and makes a stop by one of the small shrines on the second floor. She uses a candle to light another one and puts it next to the others. “This is a temple where men come to seek truth and justice.”

When he’s about to ask her to elaborate, a large figure approaches them from the opposite end of the corridor and John’s words stick in his throat. It’s Bane, walking with slow strides towards them. He briefly locks eyes with him, and John anticipates he will finally speak to him because he’s with their leader. But the man simply nods at Talia and continues on his way downstairs to the central arena. John turns around and follows him with his eyes, until the man goes to a cluster of students and begins to separate them into different groups to fight with each other. John can’t hear his voice from this distance, but he sees that Bane’s correcting postures and explaining something to some of them separately.

“Am I giving you too much trouble here?” John asks Talia, resting his forearms on the veranda, facing the arena.

“If you were, you’d be frozen out there,” she answers with a grin and mimics John’s position on the balcony. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I think that’s already been established.”

John nods. He has to admit that he’s never felt more at home than these past weeks in this place. When complete strangers are prioritising keeping you alive, it is as if you’re being actually important to someone. It’s a comforting thought under the disillusion of thinking that you’re feeling less lonely and miserable.

“What about my place?” he asks.

She tilts her head to the side and watches him intently. “What about it?”

“They told me it’s that guy’s bedroom,” John answers, nodding toward Bane. “Do you have a spare room I can use? It just feels… wrong staying there. I mean, where is he living?”

“He’s fine,” Talia answers with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s staying with me.”

John blinks and straightens his back, surprised at the revelation. He mentally scratches celibacy from the list of things he’s been assuming of this place. “So you guys…? I mean, I didn’t know you people were allowed to…”

“Have sex?” she asks bluntly.

John chuckles and even if he’s far from being a prude, he’s desexualized these people. “Wow, okay. If you want to put it that way. So he’s your, you know…”

She laughs loud enough for the men downstairs to look up briefly. Apparently, seeing their leader like that is out of the ordinary. “No, no. He’s not my lover. He’s staying with me because he has my absolute trust.”

The picture of Bane standing at the door guarding his room comes to John’s mind. Of course he does.  “I see.”

Talia seems like she’s studying John’s reaction for some reason he can’t pinpoint. “He suggested it, you know,” she says, resting her cheek on her fist with half-lidded, intense eyes.

“Suggested, what?”

“For you to take his room.”

John’s face shifts from curiosity to a certain degree of astonishment. He looks down again and directs his attention on Bane. The mans cracks his neck from side to side and looks more than menacing with that mask; he resembles a terrifying brute. He wonders what degree of importance he holds in the Temple, for his opinion to be taken so seriously in matters such as deciding a stranger’s fate. And most important, for their leader to consider it and approve.

Bane’s been doing many things for him backstage with absolutely no prior knowledge about John at all. What motivation would he have, other than feeling pity for a man who thinks nothing about his own life? Normally, John would be resentful of anyone holding such sentiment for him, but he doesn’t know this man well enough to despise him. Far from it, John is possessed with a desire to talk with him, more than ever. But he knows the rules and asking Talia to order him to talk with John would be asinine.  

John looks at the preciseness of Bane’s fists as he punches a student in the chest with a controlled movement, the way he walks and commands the other men around him. The way his eyes dart upwards to meet John’s.

…

John wakes up in pain at two am.

One of John’s calves decides to stop cooperating with the healing process and well, John hasn’t made things better. He's been forcing himself to do more repetitions than those Barsad has ordered a week ago and that was pretty stupid on his part. But he has to fill the void of being alone most of the day with something other than an established routine of visits. He started adding two extra calf raises after Barsad was gone, then another two, then four, five and so on. Until one day John felt like someone was cutting his leg with a rusty knife and he knew that he royally fucked up. He thought it’d pass, but it’s now fucking four am in the morning and his leg is still killing him.

He drags himself out of bed using his still working leg to support his weight and both hands to grab the edges of the table, the chairs and finally the doorframe.

“Help,” he calls almost in a whisper.

Two figures clad in black descend from the roof almost moving in slow motion and stand before him. The only visible parts of their bodies are their eyes, calm and sharp.

At the sudden appearance, John instinctively walks backward. But having only one functional leg, he trips. His attempt to grab the doorframe to prevent his fall fails; he ends up hitting the ground with a phenomenal loud thud. The fall sends a bolt of electricity straight to his coccyx.

Half of the Temple must be awake now from John’s screaming in the middle of the night. Ten men hurriedly run to his bedroom - Barsad is one of them. And before he can register anything, he feels someone’s grabbing him from behind and lifting him in the air as if he was just a ragdoll.

“Shit… shit!” John curses gritting his teeth and closing his eyes tight. They lay him on the bed on his side and he can’t identify which part of his body hurts more, but his butt is actually winning right now.

He can hear voices hurriedly talking in different languages. Someone presses a warm palm over his forehead and whispers something, but he can’t understand a word from it. He can hear himself moaning and he slowly opens his eyes, only to find a half-dozen pairs of eyes staring down at him. There’s an old man with deep wrinkles and dark freckles all over his face who hovers his palm over John’s face. Barsad’s at the front row staring down at John with an apprehensive expression. There’s Thaqib and many others he recognizes and John feels awfully embarrassed.

Barsad shakes his head and furrows his brow. “What the hell were you doing?”

“What…” of all the things they could tell him right now, scolding him was the last in John’s list. “My legs hurts, and now by whole fucking body hurts because those… ninjas, or whatever they are, were at my door!” He makes a mental note about asking what the hell ninjas are doing in a temple. But that’s a question that can come later, after he stops feeling like crap.

Barsad rolls his eyes and turns to order the rest to go back to their rooms. John can hear some chuckles and his name in between their whispers, which is just peachy.

The man, or doctor, he assumes, moves behind John and presses his thumb over his lower back moving southwards until he finds his tailbone. He sees stars and his entire body twitches in pain. The same happens when the man grabs his leg and starts putting pressure on certain spots on his calf, behind his knee, and over his ankle.

“It’s just the muscle,” the Doctor says. “You probably overworked the capacity of your leg’s strength and now your muscles are paying the price.” He looks at Barsad with a shrug. “Bandages, painkillers and ice. His coccyx is fine, no damage at all. It will pass by tomorrow, hopefully.”

Barsad huffs and throws a reprehending look at John, who’s actually more concerned about how much his body hurts instead of making an ‘I’m sorry daddy’ scene with the man. Barsad looks up and nods to someone behind John’s bed before disappearing from the bedroom. He rubs his eyes in annoyance. So yeah, he worked out like a maniac to speed up the process and get the hell out of here. But if Barsad was around, he would have been correcting him and could have prevented this. John laughs at the childish impulse to excuse his idiocy and sighs, throwing his head backwards. And that’s when he notices a shadow behind him. _God, not another ninja_ , he thinks.

When he turns around, he finds Bane, arms folded over his chest and his steely gaze fixed upon him.

He’s bare-chested and wearing the same dark gray cargo pants he used this afternoon at the training arena. Bane definitely looks quite intimidating. John has been reformulating the pre-conception he has of this man over the course of the days; erasing the blurry edges of the unknown features and enhancing the little bits that are coming together to draw the whole picture. It’s proven to be an interesting challenge so far. But he can’t ignore the fact that Bane is in his room (his own, technically) and he looks like a killing machine.

John looks at him with the attitude of a cheetah facing a lion, tense and still, his eyes never leaving the masked man’s. He doesn’t seem like someone you could say ‘no’ to and end up on good terms with him.  He looks older than John, that’s for sure, but the mass of muscle and the metal on his head makes it too difficult to define his age. Despite all that, he has young eyes. Very well trained watchful eyes, unreadable and alert.

John opens his mouth to say something and then he remembers: no talking.

Barsad comes back with bandages, an ice pack and pills. He hastily pushes John down on the bed and drags his pants off in one forceful pull.

“What the fuck?!” John protests, curling his legs closer to his chest.

“Quiet,” Barsad grabs John’s right leg and rest his heel over the man's thigh. He starts wrapping the bandage from his metatarsophalangeal joint to his knee tightly, but not too tight, so as to allow some movement.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Enough with the ‘I’m sorrys’. Just do what you have to do and nothing else. Am I clear?” Barsad tightens the last bit of the bandage shaking, John’s leg and he puts it down.

“Sorr- I mean y-yeah.” He pauses. “So… you’re coming back tomorrow?”

Barsad wraps the ice pack in a piece of cloth and starts bandaging it around John’s leg as well, securing it from falling. “For what?”

John looks down at the white and blue fabric wrapped around his leg. “Nothing.”

What the hell was he expecting? After making Barsad’s life hell and successfully getting him out of his room, now he’s asking him to come back? For what? For chat over tea? And then realization strikes him. He’d formed a bond with Barsad in the oddest of situations; it’d be funny and laughable at any other moment but right now it feels like a cosmic joke. John’s feeling loneliness again, after months of isolating himself from human contact, and all because he had a relation in another continent.

“Take these and remove the ice in ten minutes. And go to sleep.” The bearded man puts the painkillers on John’s lap and stands up to gather the rest of the clothes he’d brought just in case. He licks his lips and looks down at John’s feet, like he wants to say something, but instead he turns around and leaves the room.

John moves back on the bed and struggles with his legs to pull up the covers on him. And that’s the precise moment when Bane walks past him and moves to the door.

“Wait.” John’s voice makes the man stop with his broad back facing him. Bane moves his head to the side, not quite looking back but almost. The dancing flames of the fireplace cast a spooky silhouette of the massive man against the wall, and John’s reminded once again why it’s been impossible to look away whenever they crossed paths. Bane’s no ordinary man. Bane’s a mystery that’s drawing him like a moth to the fire and, at the same time, the impentrable aura surrounding him pushes John away. He’s just a peculiar man. “I’m sorry… I mean, thank you for all of this. I know I can’t talk to you but anyways, I just wanted to say thank you.”

John’s words come out in a rush, just in case the man decides to leave him talking to himself alone again. He can see the cold eyes looking at the wall, unmoving. John’s been out of place, again. And just as he’s leaning back on the bed, moving his leg into a comfortable position, the unexpected happens: he hears a mechanical voice speak to him.

“Good night.”

John’s eyes go wide at the other man's short reply. But before he can come up with anything intelligent to say, the door closes silently behind him.

…

John’s hand tries desperately to block the merciless sunlight hitting his eyes. Someone has opened the window while he was still asleep and the reflection of the sun on the snow is melting his brain like a microwave. Fortunately, the doctor’s advice has done wonders because his leg’s not hurting, at least for now. But something tells him he’ll have to stay in bed all day long, which means he going to devour Bane’s personal library as much the linguistic barriers allow him.  

“Wake up.”

John recognizes Barsad’s voice and groans. When he tries to hide under the covers like a child, the other man kicks his injured leg and John jumps with a cry. “Hey! What is wrong with you?”

“I said _wake up_. I don’t like to repeat myself.” Barsad is carrying the tray with John’s breakfast and, praise the Lord, there’s fruit in the combo.

When Barsad puts the tray on John’s lap, he can’t suppress a smirk. “Back to babysitting me?”

“Making sure you cease hurting yourself with your own stupidity,” the man answers dryly.

“Talia ordered you again, right?”

“No.” Barsad grabs one of the red polished apples and takes a bite. “Eat.”

John’s more than sure that behind that tone of annoyance, there’s something close to concern, and that takes him off guard. Perhaps it’s not the simplest relationship in the world, but that’s something that John can live with right now. This, intensified by the fact that he didn’t mean to live this far in the first place. And odd connection of sorts. And this is a bad thing. A very, very bad thing right now because having a friend means that he’s doubting the reason why he came here in the first place. He doesn’t know how or when it started, but John’s grasping the idea that there’s still people out there who find him at least good enough to have a conversation with. Or, in Barsad’s case, a non-stop parade of sarcastic come backs. It doesn’t matter if under all the bickering there’s concealed interest, and it doesn’t matter either if it feels unsettling for John. It just happens, and there’s not much to read into it. It still puts a smile on his face. At any rate, he doesn’t mind it.

John’s smiling genuinely for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * References to books, translations and other special featured items:
> 
> \- "The Life of Lycurgus" by Plutarch. Lycurgos was the legendary lawgiver of Sparta, who established the military-oriented reformation of Spartan society in accordance with the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi. All his reforms were directed towards the three Spartan virtues: equality (among citizens), military fitness, and austerity.  
> \- Ibn Hazm (994-1064) was an Andalusian polymath born in Córdoba, present-day Spain. In between many of his works, he wrote a poetry book "The Ring of the Dove." The poem Talia translates to John comes from there.


	3. Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by [Quinnster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinnster/pseuds/Quinnster).

John’s really making an effort to make sense of the scribbled characters in front of his eyes.

When he picked one of Bane’s books written in Arabic, he suspected he’d be really good at deciphering the language just by looking at the crazy looking lines, dots and dashes alone. A brilliant idea, indeed. Captivated by the beauty of the words and extremely curious about the contents of the many volumes in Bane’s bookcase, he’s decided to succeed in his enterprise. He convinces himself that the thing that looks like an ‘a’ must undoubtedly be an ‘a’, and that weird looking ‘9’ must be some kind of ‘e’ because there are so many of them. And since Arabs write from right to left, that ‘e’ must make sense with the rest of the text. Kind of. Arabic writing is gorgeous, but it looks like someone was bored in math class and started doodling on the edge of a notebook.

He angles his neck to see if the character makes more sense upside down, but it still doesn’t look right, so he lifts the book and turns it to Barsad. “What does it mean?”

The man, seated in the armchair and smoking, asks in return, “Where?”

“Here.” John points at the characters under an illustration of a war scene depicting a man riding a horse, a curved dagger hanging from his belt and wearing a golden helm.

“ _Muharib_ ,” answers Barsad. He approaches John’s side to sit on the bed and moves his finger over the lines of the word. “Mu-ha-rib. It means ‘warrior’.”

“Oh…” So that thing wasn’t an “L” after all, he thinks. John compares the word with the rest of the text and begins the excruciating task of finding a similar looking one, which proves to be a real challenge. They all look different. It’s like looking for the veritable needle in the haystack. His eyes are tired, but after stubbornly looking at the same paragraph for so long, he finally finds a match. “Ah, there! Muharib again, right?” voice full of jolliness.

“Yes,” Barsad grimaces. “Why did you ask me about this?”

John plops down on the mattress and lies on his back. “Just trying to read. I’m extremely bored.”

“Are you aware that if you can’t speak or read…” Barsad starts, but John interrupts him with a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“I know. I just thought it’d be fun?” His eyes travel over the books in perfect order on the shelves. “There are so many and it’s a shame that I can’t touch them. Well, I can, but I hate to feel ignorant.”

The man looks at John’s hands, holding the book. “How many languages do you know?”

“A bit of Italian, Spanish and Japanese. But just a little. I can have a basic dialogue and write a few words but that’s about it.” John never had enough time, not on a daily basis nor on holidays to dedicate his days to learning. His demanding job at Gotham City Police Department had consumed most of his days and the rest were dedicated to eating, showering and his boyfriend. At holidays, the only thing he wanted was to turn off his brain and nothing else, because studying, even if it was for something he wished to learn, wasn’t something he was enthusiastic about. Therefore, learning languages was mostly for practical purposes as a cop rather than pleasure.

There’s a sudden knock at the door. A young man, no older than eighteen, John presumes, with wavy brown short hair and caramel colored eyes enters the room and waits respectfully at the door. “Excuse me, brother. Kalimar requests your presence,” he says. The boy turns his attention to John and lifts his hand to wave shyly. “Hi.”

The timid voice and the manners gives him an innocence that contrasts with the rough men preparing themselves every day for a fight that may never happen.

“Hi there,” John answers with a smile, feeling like a rock star.

Barsad leaves the bed and joins the boy at the door. The man’s not very tall and, by comparison, the boy is tall for his age, almost Barsad’s size. The thin boy looks his superior straight in the eye when he’s talking, with a mischievous smile, something that apparently goes overlooked by the bearded man. Barsad finishes his conversation with the newcomer. “I’ll be right back,” he says before closing the door behind him.

Once they’re gone, John continues to marvel at the exquisite beauty of the book, the same rare edition he talked about with Talia that day. John feels like a kid again; he’s transported back to those days when he’d been eager to read long books at the library, wanting to pretend to be a grown-up. He’d liked to sport an air of superiority, and many times the librarian had looked at him with a raised eyebrow when he took Stephen King books, since he was only 11 years old. Most of the time he’d barely read one chapter and the book ended up in the nightstand sleeping until he returned it, because it was too boring for his age. His library was full of Batman comics.

Despite all this, John surpassed his schoolmates in reading comprehension and literature classes, but in the process he'd earned hurtful nicknames. Looking at the Arabic text in his hands now, John thinks that as an adult it won't cross anyone's mind to make fun of him for being ignorant with a foreign language.

...

Being immobilized again is the perfect excuse to ask his caretakers about some words in the books and with each he expands his vocabulary with with words like ‘ _shukran_ ’ (thank you) and ‘ _salam alaikum’_ (Peace be with you, a simple way to say ‘hello’ according to Thaqib). Every word or expression sounds poetic. There isn’t a single word for every expression (generally, there’s a group of words to express an idea) and if there is, it has a lot of definitions, more even than from other languages John knows. He’s never taken his time to learn any language in depth.  During all his travels, he’d learned basic expressions such as ‘where’s the toilet?’, ‘how do I get here?’, ‘how much is this?’ and so on. Survival stuff. He’s never been keen on using a travel agency and moving in a group to visit the different vistas of the cities. He likes independence, even if that’s caused him a lot of troubles. Thankfully, Robert’s sense of direction had always saved the situation. John smiles bitterly at that as he flips through the pages of the book.

“ _Insaan_ ,” says Murad, one of his regular visitors. He’s a man around his forties, calm looking and quite slow in everything he does. He always takes his time to properly serve John’s food and teaches him how to appreciate all the typical dishes. He’s also a fairly decent educator and his serenity carries through into teaching. The man slowly writes the foreign word down on a notebook for John to see. The pen swiftly moves from right to left. “It means ‘man’.”

John studies the word and nods. “Insaaeen,” he repeats.

“Saan,” Murad corrects.

“Zeeeeen.” 

Barsad’s been watching them from time to time from over the top of the worn book he’s reading, pretending not to be interested in what’s happening. He leaves the annoying task of teaching John how to speak Arabic to his brother because he has the most patience to deal with a newbie. John wonders what kind of teacher he is, if he treats all his students in the same fashion. Or perhaps he does it only with John?

Barsad purposely remains silent the whole time until he can’t stand it anymore. He rolls his eyes from the other corner of the room and puts down the book. “Saa. AAAA. Like ‘ _laa’_.”

John blinks, totally lost. “And what’s that?”

“It means ‘no’. Come on, repeat after me. Laa.” Barsad opens his mouth comically wide, like he’s going to eat an entire apple all at once.

The problem lays in the sound that comes from the throat, thinks John, and he tries to speak as if he was swallowing water. “Laaagghhh,” John says, mimicking Barsad.

Murad snorts and looks down at his lap, containing his laughter.

“Laa, goddamnit! AAAA!” Barsad curls his fingers like claws, as if the action could correct John’s poor pronunciation.

“L- LAAAAGGHHH!” John tries his best to push down the English accent to emulate the sound, opening his mouth and forcing his jaw down like a boa constrictor. His throat and the muscles in his face are hurting from so many ‘aaa’s’. His face could easily be a carbon copy of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch.

“OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!” Barsad stands and the book falls from his lap to the floor.

“I’M DOING IT!”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!” Barsad slaps his forehead in frustration and mutters something in Arabic; cursing, most likely. John doesn’t truly want to know what Barsad is like when he’s really angry because, at least as a professor, the man’s a disaster. Luckily, Murad’s patience brings some peace back into the scene as he repeats every syllable, slow and exaggerating his gestures to help him get it right. John listens with the seriousness of a preschooler learning the alphabet and writes the words down in phonetic English. He repeats the words over and over again until he’s fairly decent at it.

As soon as Murad’s gone, John rewrites, for the third time, every word in his notebook. His writing is terrible, but at least he’s entertained until his leg heals. After a while, Barsad seems apparently moved by his dedication and goes to sit by John’s side on the bed, correcting him, calmer this time. John spends their dinner time asking Barsad how to say random words that come to his mind. The man seems pleased with this, even if he sometimes seems like he wants to bite John’s head over his articulation. John softly repeats some of the words like a mantra as he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling until his eyes close and sleep finds him at last.

…

"So, you’re not monks.”

Talia and John sit by one of the glassless windows in a hexagonal room in the west wing of the temple. The room is generally used by the other members for reading and studying. There are shrines with Buddhist gods and the room is candle-lit, just like the rest of the multileveled temple. It’s the closest they can get to privacy, not counting John’s or Talia’s room, which he’s never visited. And he wouldn’t dare ask to. Firstly, because she’s the leader and, secondly, because going to a woman’s room alone would be disrespectful. And, of course, because he has the inkling that the rest of the male population would slit his throat the moment he stepped in there.

"No," Talia answers with sureness in her voice, “Men look for answers that go far beyond earthly matters and turn their energy to the spiritual world. Not everything we achieve here is connected to the physical aspect, so we also turn to methods that are linked with religious practices to reach our objectives.”

The stance sounds complex. John tries to delve into it. “Training in martial arts is a part of your objectives?”

“Of course,” she goes on, “They strengthen our bodies and contribute to the idea of vanquishing any obstacle presented.” She pauses to trace her fingers over the curls of the delicate lattice carved in the window. “To remove fear from our minds and use it as a weapon to defeat weakness.”

Fear. He remembers reading about it not too long ago in one of Bane’s books. It’s something always present in the human condition as a prevailing factor for a man’s development. Conquering it is an art itself and sometimes even impossible. But if they can, he has to admit he deeply admires them for it.

“So, basically you train to, say, reach some kind of illumination or something like that?” John muses.

“And honor the ideals of truth and justice,” answers Talia with conviction.

John narrows his eyes, a sense of curiosity hitting him. _Justice_. It’s a strange concept to mention in a temple but not truthfully incongruous with the context. “Is it possible that some of you aren’t very convinced about the teachings you learn here?”

“You’d be surprised if I told you how often I’ve seen that,” she answers with a certain tone of deception. “That’s the reason why the training is so severe, to dissipate the clouds of doubt and fear.”

Not so far away a sound similar to a clash of thunder is heard, breaking the quietness of the moment. A piece of the glacier has broken off and fallen into the waters of the semi-frozen river separating the temple from the field of ice. John’s momentarily distracted by it. “Toxic ideas,” he says afterwards.

“Like suicide,” she quickly answers.

John laughs softly. "Very subtle."

"Very true, though," she adds, adamantly raising both eyebrows and smiling. “Keeps your head clean to reach your goal.”

“If there are goals to achieve to begin with,” John folds his arms upon his chest.

“There are always goals to pursue before death. The tricky part is to detect them,” she says.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? People spend their entire life looking for them and hitting their heads against a wall over and over again to fulfill their dreams. Hope can be lethal when all one wants to do is reach his or her own private heaven and minimize the problems in the middle. Which shouldn’t be pursued because every sense of reality might be lost. But John has to admit that hope and goals have worked for many others out there. “I guess so.”

Talia looks at his hands and then searches for his eyes, leaning closer. “I know you understand this, even if your mind denies you to see it right now.” John thinks that perhaps she’s right. But there’s still too much grief inside him to see any of this, at least for now.

Barsad’s presence behind them distracts Talia. “I think your teacher is waiting,” she says with a soft laugh.

John turns around and grins. The short tempered man lowers his eyes and kicks an imaginary stone on the floor with his foot.

“I better go. He’s very strict,” John says with the knowledge that Barsad would never dare interrupt his conversation with Talia just to continue with their Arabic classes.

“Certainly so.” Probably playing the kind card towards her subordinate, Talia stands up, dusting off her dark blue gi. She gives him a final glance, distilling hope. "Have fun," she adds before leaving and passing by Barsad's side.

...

If speaking Arabic is complicated, writing it is hell on earth. The letter ‘ _alif_ ’ is quite simple to understand and draw. It’s just a vertical line that may go first or, in case it goes in the middle of a sentence, there’s a little line added at the bottom that connects it with other letters. Piece of cake. But things get a little complicated when he starts connecting each letter by drawing semi circles and curly lines, like it happens with _bā’_ or _yā_. Writing simple words like ‘ _iid_ ’ (‘number’) requires a lot of patience, lots of spare paper and a good trash can by his side at one of the small desks near the central arena. His index and thumb are covered with ink and he’s smudging the paper, but he refuses to give up. He looks at Barsad’s examples and then writes the words the man requested using the Arabic alphabet. What he ends up with looks like they’ve been written by an old man with Parkinson.

His leg is healing well and doesn’t hurt so much, as long as he keeps it resting up on a bench or a chair. At some point he started to grow tired of Bane’s room and asked Barsad to take him out just to see other faces. Sometimes he sits silently alone in one of the farthest common rooms, and sometimes he looks for a quiet place near a window where he can still hear voices coming from the corridors. Other times, he watches some combat classes, like the one taking place in front of him.

John puts down the dip pen and stretches. His back is stone hard from his bent position. He looks down at his lame attempts and frowns in disgust.

“That’s incorrect.”

He almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden interruption. John turns to look at the owner of that voice. He doesn’t really need to make much effort to recognize it, even if he heard it just once. The mechanic sound is easily distinguishable and characteristic of only one man among many. There he is – Bane, wearing a black protective vest making him even more massive than he already is. He stands at John’s back, looming over him and observing his disastrous writing on the desk. “Er, how so?” John asks, eyes back on the paper.

“That character is _tā’_ , not _thā’_ ,” he says, leaning even closer and pointing with a nod of his bald head at the scribbled area in question.

John keeps his eyes on the table, but from the corner of his eye he can see Bane’s mask moving closer to his shoulder. He doesn’t dare look at it, even if he’s absolutely tempted to do so because it doesn’t feel quite right.  John picks up the pen again and waits for instructions. “Oh?”

“There are three dots in _thā_ , not two. You made the connection well, but the problem is the dots over here.” One of Bane’s thick fingers points the mistake on the paper. His third row of phalanges are almost twice larger than John’s and the veins in the back of his palms are like rivers over the mountains of his calloused strong knuckles. It’s an irony that a hand that big that could crush a human skull to dust, can move almost delicately.

John looks at the letters and then back at Barsad’s writing. “I see.”

"He did it again, huh?" Barsad says, carrying two cups of Darjeeling tea in his hands. Considering that Blake is a coffee addict, he’s dealing with the lack of it fairly well. Besides, he used to drink coffee just to keep himself awake when the days on the streets were slow and things in his area were quiet. And now he doesn’t really need to follow any daily pattern to fulfill a routine.

"Do you pay attention to anything I say?" asks Barsad.

"No, I don't. I use my time thinking about how young you'd look if you shaved," John sarcastically responds.

“Do you want to learn or not?” Barsad asks, putting John’s tea on the desk.

“Well, yeah. But this looks too… advanced for me. I can hardly remember the letters.” John takes a sip and sticks his tongue out. “Damn, this is hot.”

“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall,” says Bane resting his hands on the shoulder straps of his protective vest. It sounds like something Bane took from one of his books or some psychology magazine. The picture of Bane taking notes while a patient lays on a divan telling him his problems is a scary idea.

John looks up at him, holding his mug, clueless.

“Confucius,” the masked man adds.

John inadvertently looks at the mask, a reflex act to avoid his gaze and focus on the place where his lips should be. This time he concentrates more on the details. There are tubes that must carry some type of oxygen or similar because they cover his nose and all his mouth even his chin. Another pair of tubes cross his head between his eyes to the back to a point John can’t see from this angle. Bane looks away, facing the arena. John sighs. “I’ve been falling so much I think I polished the floors with my ass,” he says with a shrug.

“Giving up is an easy task.” The big man raises his chin exposing his thick throat, almost defiantly.

“Nobody said I was planning on doing it.”  Because he’s not sincerely planning on it, but it's one thing to think it and another to be told about it. As if he was a kid. John sips his tea and looks away, watching the strong bodies in front of him contorting under an old man’s commands.

“Then by all means, carry on and prove it.” With an air of satisfaction, Bane walks away towards the students, leaving John and Barsad alone.

A silent moment passes with Bane’s voice ringing in his ears. A pretty cheap trick from the man, but effective.

“Let’s do this,” John says, taking a deep breath and grabbing the pen firmly.

…

Katas remind John of high-school cheerleading.

Except that you’re not aiming to kill your team mates during a performance.

John takes a break from his Arabic lessons for a couple of days to watch the students practicing for hours with no rest, until the instructor tells them to do so and many collapse on the stone cold floor, sweaty and gasping for air. Watching them is mesmerizing. John feels the energy coming from the class in his skin, just by looking at them working so hard and forcing their bodies until exhaustion. Some let out muffled cries because of cramps in, for example, an arm, and they still go at it, using the rest of their limbs like nothing has happened. Really strong men, not only emotionally but physically as well.

There are different groups according to the different levels of skills, from beginners to advanced ones. They practice different styles, but the ones he sees most is _wushu_ , which looks like something taken from a Kung-Fu movie. Every day men fall pretty hard on their knees, arms and even head and John hisses at the sight of dislocated shoulders or sometimes broken bones. When Talia said that the practice was severe, she wasn’t kidding.

He starts mimicking with his arms the stances of the beginner’s group sitting at his desk. He’s really pitiful at it, to be honest. His arms move more like Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ than like anything taken from a martial arts book, and he knows he’s being ridiculous, but who cares. It’s fun. That is until one day the people at the temple notice him and shake their heads as they pass by. John suddenly feels self-conscious and, just because he’s a very proud individual, starts putting some real effort in doing them correctly.

In his own way, of course.

He starts putting “nicknames" to the movements he does with his arms, since he can’t move his legs yet and he has no idea what the fuck is the instructor saying. For example, when his arm is extended to the front and his palm faces upwards, he names it ‘ _waiting for a tip’_. When his left arm goes up and the other is curled close to his waist, he says it’s ‘ _calling a cab_ ,’ and so on.

The first couple of days he starts watching the students very closely and of course, he’s left behind because he’s doing everything too slowly trying to memorize each kata. After a while, he can at least get two or three of them almost in sync with the students and John smiles, giving himself a mental high-five.

Eventually his leg starts feeling closer to normal and he dares to add the kicks and bending positions, keeping himself glued to the wall under the shadow of the stairs to remain hidden. He can’t afford the luxury of having a private session with someone to practice with, and he won’t make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone if he can prevent it, to which he fails.

 _Calling a cab, no thanks no more tea, ready to run, punch in the balls, kick in the stomach, three o’clock, kneeling Superman_ , he mentally says as he memorizes the order of every move.

“What are you doing?”

John coughs and immediately raises both arms clasping his hands together, arching his back. “Nothing,” he answers to Barsad who suddenly appears standing by his side.

“Really,” the man says, raising an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced.

“Stretching?” John says with a sheepish grin.

Barsad huffs and looks away, frustrated. “Dinner’s ready,” he informs and turns around to go up the stairs, not without saying a few words loud enough for John to hear, “By the way, you’re doing it wrong.”

John flushes and follows the man with his tail between his legs. Stupid! He has to be more careful next time. The things he does are for pleasure, not for others to judge him on. But Barsad has the distinctive quality of making him feel ridiculous with a simple glance or word. And john learned these past days that the man does it sometimes to help him to improve, not just to bitch at him. Thankfully Barsad doesn’t comment on anything about it, but he can’t stop himself from feeling ashamed. His thoughts dissipate when he smells the food. Tonight they’re eating _Tarkari_ , a really spicy meal and very beneficial to fight the cold that filters through the windows.

“So um,” John starts, poking his food like a teen who’s being forced to eat his vegetables. “How did you end up here?”

Barsad munches calmly, not caring about giving out an immediate answer. “I was brought here.”

“Really? Your parents sent you here?” That’s the first thing that crosses John’s head, because he’s seen it before. Well, he saw it in _Seven Years in Tibet,_ so yeah, his conception about the topic is a bit shallow. But if Barsad’s parents left him as a boy, perhaps that will explain why he closes around himself so tightly.

Barsad laughs. “No, my parents died when I was seven.”

John’s face falls. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. No need to apologize.” The man shrugs and takes another bite of his meal with slurpy noises.

John tilts his head, raising both eyebrows questioningly. “So…?”

“I came here with Bane after leaving prison,” answers Barsad flatly, not meeting his companion’s eyes.

“Oh.” From prison to a temple? Sounds like a story taken from action movies. And also… Bane had been in prison too. He’s not only dangerous looking, the guy’s the real stuff. He probably got all that muscle so he could let the others know that if they laid a finger on him they’d have a slow, painful death. John hesitates to ask more, but his curiosity wins. “So, what happened?” he asks, eyes wide before taking another bite.

Barsad frowns, now looking at him. “What happened with what?”

John puts down his fork on his bowl, frustrated. He realizes that the level of irritability comes from both ends. He and Barsad clash with obstinacy. “Aw, come on, man! Be nice, for once.”

Barsad lifts his fork and points at John with it menacingly. “I am being nice. You’ll know when I’m not, believe me.”

John angrily takes another bite of his Tarkari, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Suit yourself,” the other man answers.

It's clear that when Barsad doesn't want to talk he won't, regardless of whether you're being nice or concerned about him. He’ll continue being a rock. But sometimes John has noticed that he’s open to answering questions, especially about training, which has been taking up most of their conversations. If you're going to have some kind of friendship, there are some facts that you should know about the other one involved, right? And once you’ve made an impression into someone else’s life it’s not easy to escape from that. John’s not a man you can just simply get away from. Despite their cultural differences, or better yet because of their cultural differences, John continuously tries to tear Barsad’s guard down, which takes a lot of patience and skills to accomplish.

He counts to ten and then decides to set up a simple coercing tactic to his companion. “Look, if you tell me, then you can ask me anything you want afterwards.”

Barsad puts down his bowl and looks at him annoyed. “And why would I be interested in you?”

John raises his chin proudly. “Because I’m a very interesting individual.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll answer” Barsad sighs and looks down. “I killed a man.”

If he went to prison, it wasn't for stealing daisies. The idea of Barsad taking another human life gives him a different dimension. An ex-convict's life leaves him marked in the way he treats the rest of the world, scars that no amount of time will allow to fade. Or at least, that’s what John has seen in his days as a cop with repeaters.

“Why?”

“Because I stole food for my family and the market’s owner was going to kill me,” the bearded man answers, idly stirring his food with his fork.

John’s mouth drops. “You have a family?”

“Had.” The man quickly answers and looks away to the wall. “My wife, a daughter and son,” he says ruefully.

A family. Barsad had a family. He fell in love, got married and had children. This surly man was capable of raising a home. A home he lost.

“Did you search for them after getting out of prison?” John asks.

“No. I wasn’t the same man after the Pit.”

John looks away at the fireplace and it doesn’t seem like a too intelligent idea to push on the topic, mostly because forming a bond with someone demands mutual respect and these are the kind of talks that should be reserved for later. When basic rules have somehow been settled between them. The question he wants to ask next is ‘do you miss them?’ But of course he misses them, and the stupidity of considering it as a serious question is beyond ridiculous. On the other hand, the “Pit” must be the name he uses for the prison, something that would definitely be meant to describe a place where the reinsertion of the criminals in society are just pretty words for the paperwork. A place where men are rotting corpses thrown into forgetfulness.

John rests his palms on his knees. “Okay. Now you can ask anything about me.”

After some silent moments of thought, Barsad speaks. “What did you do for a living? Back in Gotham.”

“I was a cop,” John replies nonchalantly.

The other man raises both eyebrows, probably not expecting that answer. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, nothing as interesting as living in a temple with a bunch of ninjas.” John muses. He suddenly remembers what he meant to ask back then. “By the way, what were they doing at my door when I strained my calf?”

Barsad shrugs. “Guarding you.”

Guarding him? Just like if he was a princess in a tower. Or a criminal. A hostage? John snorts. “Do you people think I’m dangerous?”

“No. But our leader wants to keep an eye on you.” Barsad serves some orange juice to his companion and himself.

They consider him dangerous or interesting, like a new type of bug to study in a lab. The ‘suicide watch’ is a solid concept to put on the table. John anxiously taps his fingers on his bowl. “Why?”

Barsad takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head to the side. “You must have perked her interest.”

Then the answer is closer to him being a lab rat than kindness. It can’t be. This must not be the first time they’ve seen an American in their lives. They speak English, they know the city where he comes from, and they even catch some basic references to old school pop culture. They live isolated from the rest of civilization but they have a knowledge of the world that surrounds them. John wonders if they are up to date with the world’s daily news or if they read newspapers or watch TV… something that seems unlikely because there’s no electricity. So, the idea of being ‘interesting’ sounds nice, but there’s the question lingering in the air. “Okay but, why ninjas? Why not normal people at my door?”

“Because she probably doesn’t want you to feel as though you’re being held as a prisoner.”

“Ah…”

Despite Barsad’s affirmation, the obvious deduction is that _he is_ being held like a prisoner, probably protecting him from himself from doing any other stupidity according to these people. Like putting an end to his misery. But John doesn’t really care about going out right now. The cold outside would immobilize him before he took more than three steps, and then he'd be dragged back inside by Bane or one of the other 'brothers' to save him. He's not going anywhere at the moment for another reason that he doesn’t want to bother trying to rationalize right now.

After dinner, John finally convinces Barsad to play chess with him. They drink _Rakshi_ and surprisingly John wins one set, making his companion ask for another match. Because, of course, the other man isn’t the type of guy who’d go easy on him. Barsad wins and he celebrates like a child, but John doesn’t complain. He enjoys seeing him stress free when he’s around. Tiredness takes the best of him after his adventures with wushu. Barsad notices this and puts all the pieces carefully in the chess box. Sleep comes and John doesn’t really fight it at all.

…

John’s mastering his personal version of the kick ‘ _look at my new tat’_ with his right arm while the intermediate class takes place in the common room. His moves are getting better and faster. He feels like a real student even though he must be doing something wrong. But what counts is the intention, right? The other members of the temple aren’t sneering at him anymore and some even make a stop to watch him curiously. No one says anything, but at least they aren’t laughing at him.

“You’re making Xiao Tong turn in his grave.”

John lets his arms fall, defeated. After all this time copying the apprentices in the open, John knew he wasn't going to be able to avoid Barsad's catching him in the act forever.“Give me some credit here.”

“Do it again,” the bearded man says.

John complies and Barsad moves closer. He grabs John’s forearm and shakes it. “What do you think this is for?”

“Blocking your eyes?” answers John with a sheepish grin.

Barsad shakes his head. “Blocking a kick from above,” he corrects, lifting his arm to stop at a certain spot in the air.

John’s arm shakes as if it is made of rubber. “Aha?”

Barsad grabs John’s forearm with both hands and runs his fingers all along its length. “You’re supposed to use some force here.”

“So I have to kick the other?”

“No. Imagine there’s a leg descending to hit you in the head. You have to use this,” he says, tightening his grip on John’s muscles, “to block your opponent.” Barsad moves to stand opposite John. “Block me,” he commands, and he uses his own forearm vertically to hit John’s, who didn’t get the memo and ends up hitting his own nose with his arm.

John covers his face with both hands, knitting his eyebrows together. “Ouch!”

Barsad rolls his eyes. “Use your strength. Block me!” And he goes again, slower this time and turning his teacher mode on to make a point. John applies basic strength to keep Barsad’s arm out of reach. Barsad applauds once. “There you go.” John smiles at this little victory.

“You have to lock your arm. Imagine there’s a wall in front of you.” Barsad stands by John’s side and does the defensive movement, his muscles tensing and stopping to a halt in mid air. “Also, the kick starts with your fist closed against your heart, and then you twist your arm upwards and block. Like this,” he says, repeating and hitting his chest twice to demonstrate John the place where his fist must rest.

Back at the academy John took self-defense classes, but he didn’t get too far with them. They were more like a mix of different martial arts and police training, but never a specific branch like the one he’s learning. John nods at his unwillingly temporary teacher and mimics the stance again and again until beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. The man corrects the way John’s shoulders should move, his fists and the level of his chin. John starts ignoring the casual glances towards their direction, his focus is on Barsad’s voice only.

“We have a new trainee, do we?”

Barsad immediately stops and looks at their leader respectfully. John slowly turns to smile at Talia who’s accompanied by two other members behind her. “Just fooling around,” he says as soon as he can breathe.

“Looks like you’ve found a new goal,” she adds with pleased emphasis in her voice.

John shifts on his feet, scratching his short hair, wet with sweat. “Not really. This isn’t something I want to excel at. Like I said, just fooling around.”

“I don’t think so. You’ve been practicing for days now.” Talia retorts, taking a seat by John’s side on the bench.

Shit. She saw him. Hell, the entire temple probably saw him making a fool out of himself. John was aware that he would be seen, but it's one thing to know you're being watched, and another thing entirely to be told that you're being watched.

And then Bane’s face crosses his mind.

_Oh shit. Not him too._

“You want to get better at it. There’s ambition here,” she says, pointing at her temple with a finger. “A small amount, but there nonetheless.”

Ambition is not something he'd ever lacked in his life. He had always wanted to get out of the orphanage to see the world, face the lions of the jungle of cement and steel, stand by his own and begin his real life. Ambition is what drove him to becoming a cop, to fulfill his desire to guard the city and become a better man, according to what he was taught in the orphanage.His desire to honor justice dictated his heart and motivated him to protect the innocent above everything else. To give his life a real purpose. John laughs softly and shrugs, looking away. Sure, Talia's made a point about him, and he has to admit that her persistence got him with that one.

“Are you enjoying this?” Talia’s voice is resonant, gentle, smiling.

“Yeah. It’s… pretty interesting,” answers John, his voice almost unheard by the shouting at practice not too far away from them.

“Then Barsad will teach you.”

The bearded man’s eyes go wide at the suggestion. This is a nightmare for him but a fantastic prospect of educative fun for John, who’s beaming at the idea. Barsad groans, but when Talia nods at him with a smile he nods in return, lowering his eyes and acknowledging the order.

“Would you like to learn? From the beginning, in the correct way it’s supposed to be?” she says with a kind smile.

John shifts nervously on his feet. “That’d be really cool.”

“It’s settled then.” She walks past John and pats him on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

John’s smile widens and he turns to look at Barsad, who doesn’t look really thrilled at the idea the way John is.

“Well, it’s official now,” says John wiggling his eyebrows.

“We’ll start from the very beginning. I don’t even want to know how much you’ve fucked up before this.” The other man’s voice sounds pained with resignation.

“Yes, Mr. Barsad,” John says teasingly.

“Don’t you dare call me that.”

John pats Barsad on the back, gaining a threatening look from the other man. “Okay, okay. I’m just glad that I’ll have you as my teacher. I’m honored.”

Barsad mutters something under his breath. But John’s too ecstatic to care or feel rejected. He mentally pictures himself like a martial arts master and how envious his buddies at the station would be as he kicks criminals like some superhero in the night, with a cape and a mask. A super cool vigilante, like his childhood hero Batman, fighting dangerous criminals with freaky antics and crazy suits.

“So, when do we start?” asks John, impatiently rubbing his palms together.

Barsad looks around. “As soon as the arena is clear. I have a reputation to maintain.”

They wait until the last group of students is gone and they wait until those that lingered to talk or informally practice with each other leave. As they leave there’s a murmur with John’s name among them and John tries his best to not look affected by this. Barsad positions him in the center and they start from the very initial stances, way before the forms John was performing back then. The man kicks him everywhere correcting his posture, his legs, his hands, the level where his chin should be.

“Now, flex your right leg and put the other back, as if you were stretching after running,” he says, gesturing with his hands.

John licks his lips and does as he’s told, his knee drawing into a pitiful ninety-degree angle, one leg at the front, the other at the back.

“I said flex.”

“I’m doing that.”

Barsad points at the space between John’s legs. “You’re barely standing. Flex.”

John frowns and forces himself down, legs wobbling.

Barsad looks at his student with a mix of annoyance and frustration. “Is that all you can do?”

The muscles in John’s inner thighs are stretching and he can feel the tension in his abductors. “Yes?”

“God.” Barsad stands in front of John and rests both palms on his shoulders. He pushes him down, bending John’s knee further.

John hisses and balances himself with both arms extended to his sides. “It hurts.”

“Good,” says Barsad, pushing down even harder, his eyes down and watching the way John’s knee slowly gives in and angles just an inch more.

“It hurts!”

Barsad releases him and huffs. “Stay there,” he says and starts circling around him.

John's entire body trembles and his torso is like jelly trying to compensate for his position and keep him from falling on his side. Barsad goes to John’s back and holds him with a hand on his hip while the other hand pushes John’s thigh further apart.

John feels like a thousand needles are pinching the back of his leg and even his ass.

He winces and grits his teeth. “Oh god, please, stop!”

“You cry like a little girl. How did you climb the mountains? How did you even got into the police academy?” says Barsad, pushing even harder, lowering John’s body closer to the ground.

“I’m just not very flexible, okay?” John’s shaking in agony. “FUCK, IT HURTS!”

“Shut up, people are looking!” Barsad hushes him and slaps his leg, almost making John lose it and hit the floor. The man prevents his fall by grabbing his hips and keeping John in place, supporting his weight with his hands.

John’s at the verge of tears. “I HAVE BALLS, YOU KNOW.”

Barsad sighs and lets go, making his failure of a student fall on his side, grabbing his testicles. He stares down at John pitifully. “You have the flexibility of an iron bar. We need to work on that.”

“Yeah, only if you don’t try to castrate me in the process!” answers John with glassy eyes, face flushed and holding his pained genitals with his hands.

Barsad throws his head backwards and covers his eyes with both palms. “Okay. Let’s try with something that won’t make me look like I’m torturing you. Now, back to the basic position.”

John takes a moment to recover and then they start from the very beginning. His head then, flies away, leaving behind those clouds and shadows and faces that come and go like flashes. Friends, people he knows, work partners. What are they doing now? Are they missing him? he asked himself not long ago. Now, none of that floods his thoughts. He’s here with Barsad, who shows him how to do the first half of the first form of wushu alone and that’s it. That’s all he needs. His teacher repeating the gracious movements together with John with long pauses, mirroring each other, enough for him to catch up and allow the bearded man to correct his mistakes. Which are many, of course. The major problem is when John has to block twisting his body to his left.

“Your arm is correct, you need to turn and look at me straight in the eye.” Barsad points to his own eyes with his index and middle finger. “Keep your forearm up and the rest of your arm parallel to the floor at the level of your shoulder.”

John’s supposed to do a ninety-degree turn but he can barely do a forty. “I can’t.”

“Again,” says Barsad. “And keep your feet stuck on the floor, don’t lift your right foot.”

John repeats the movement twice but he can barely get half of it. Her lets out a defeated, frustrated sigh.

“The problem is in his hips,” says a deep voice from not far away.

John heart starts beating faster. He relaxes his body and turns to look at Bane, resting his back against one of the wooden columns, arms folded upon his chest. The rest of the large room is empty, except for the large figure watching him intensely. John stops, motionless, transfixed by the big man’s presence.

“Ah, that could be it,” answers Barsad, looking at John’s hips with a nod.

Bane says something else, this time in Arabic and Barsad answers, establishing a dialogue John can’t follow nor understand at all. The man walks closer and points to John’s feet and waist, like he was a piece of meat ready to sell at the market. He feels like he’s being measured for a tailor to do his refined job with his body. Barsad moves to stand behind John and places both hands on his hips. “Try again, use your hips to turn, not your waist. Rotate them as if you were going to hit your enemy with your hipbones.”

At the almost intimate touch, John feels a blush creeping up his nape and swallows. He looks forward, unblinking and positions himself ready for the strike. He turns around, feeling Barsad’s hands pushing his hips, aiding the twist and he almost makes it.

“You’re still lifting your right foot,” his teacher points out, patting John’s right leg.

John knits his eyebrows together, his body still contorted on his right flank. “I’m not flexible, remember?”

Bane says something else in Arabic and Barsad shrugs, leaving his place behind John and stepping in front of him. With no previous warning, Barsad stomps on John’s right foot.

“Ah! What…!”

“Try again.”

John huffs and does the same movement, this time his foot unmoving with Barsad’s on top of it. When he successfully makes the block, he finds Bane facing him, his eyes staring at John. His mouth opens and closes, blinking furiously. 

“Better,” says Barsad, stepping off John’s foot.

John lets his arm fall, keeping his eyes on Bane. He lets himself be carried away by the sweet sensation of success and the infantile attitude of impressing him like a high-school crush, heart pounding in his chest. Ridiculous, since he’s a grown up man, not a child. He stands there, silently looking at him with a tinge of uneasiness, but determined to sustain eye contact as much as possible. He draws a very faint smile. The other man stares back, unmoved.

Barsad interrupts. “Well, let’s try it again.”

Bane takes a step back, leaving some space for his brother to move around John. They talk some more, probably exchanging techniques and ideas before Bane struts away, taking his leave. John doesn’t waste the opportunity he has at hand. And before it vanishes away, he takes the chance. “Thanks. You’re a good teacher,” he says watching the man’s large back.

“Don’t thank me, Mr. Blake,” Bane says, distantly. He doesn’t stop, and continues walking away. “I’m not your teacher.”

John bites his lips and looks down. Barsad snaps his fingers in front of John’s eyes to get his attention back, obviously reading his student’s enchantment with the strong man disappearing under the stairs. They repeat the movement and after a couple of tries, he can do it without Barsad’s foot restraining him.

Diametrically opposed to Barsad and his progressive openness, Bane remains a thick, impermeable wall. He can feel his eyes when he’s training in solitude with his teacher, who’s getting more patient in the course of the days, and sometimes Bane contributes with a suggestion, but he always addresses the bearded man only. Never to John. He knows John is not his pupil and that he’s technically right in not getting in the middle of his training sessions, but still… All of this makes John think that the large man must be getting sick of being under Talia’s order keeping Bane away from his room and waiting for the stranger to heal and get the fuck out of here. However, there’s an apparent interest in John’s progress, probably as a result of seeing someone different at the temple who’s not part of it.

Or maybe he’s just overreading things.

Slowly, John’s mild insolence starts to fade, leaving space to a good predisposition to educate himself with patience and perseverance. Not all together but enough to draw a pleased smile upon Barsad’s lips. He’s growing so used to seeing familiar faces every day and those who initially laughed at him are now making encouraging gestures from behind Barsad’s back. They clearly don’t want to step on the man’s toes. His leg slowly heals and his muscles regain the vigor of months of inactivity. Probably a product of his imagination, the days seem brighter since that afternoon at the arena, and he starts admiring the icy beauty surrounding him with new eyes. The systematic destruction of his spirit enters into a stage of suspension, where the shattered pieces of some of his memories are gone and lost but the rest remain intact.

He’s inadvertently reconstructing his body, and probably something else.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** References to books, translations and other special featured items:**
> 
> * Tarkari: a vegetable curry, very spicy and popular in Nepal.  
> * Rakshi: is a traditional distilled alcoholic beverage in Tibet and Nepal. It is often made at home.  
> * Xiao Tong: was a chinese prince of the Liang Dynasty (502-557) responsible of calling the chinese martial art "wushu" for the first time in his book "Wenxuan."


	4. Begin

“You’re leaving today.”

John opens a bogey eye with difficulty. Barsad’s voice and what he has just said takes him by surprise. So today’s the day. They got tired of him and they’re going to kick him out. John feels much better, something the people from the temple evidently noticed and consider it enough to let him go and do whatever he feels like doing. After so much effort he'd put into convincing them about it by being a pain in the ass, it's finally paid off. “Okay,” he says, sitting up on the bed and looking around to spot his things. “I need a new satchel to grab some food for the trip. I’ll be gone by midday.”

Barsad looks at him in confusion. “What?”

John looks around as if his companion was talking to someone else. “Just what I said?”

Barsad narrows his eyes. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out?”

As if it finally dawns on him what John is saying, Barsad laughs and shakes his head. “You're being moved to the common bedrooms.”

He’s finally leaving Bane’s place. He’s been wishing for this day to come but now that it's actually happening, it feels weird. It's like when you leave a fancy hotel room after you've spent a fantastic holiday there. Like leaving a 'second home.' But still, moving somewhere else is a brand new adventure, and in so, he realizes that they still want him there with them. What for? So far he’s only been a nuisance. “So, I can stay?”

“Yes.” There’s something in Barsad’s tone that almost sounds as if he was pleased by it.

John leaves the bed and gathers a pair of pants lying on a chair. “Do you sleep in the common bedrooms too?”

“No. I sleep in another level. You’ll be sleeping with the trainees.” Trainees, not apprentices, he considers. Barsad looks around for the rest of John’s clothes. Bane’s room is almost unrecognizable with the mess John has left. He should feel ashamed of it but there isn’t much he can do; Barsad seems to be in a hurry, leaving little to no time for him to fix the place. Books here and there, the chess game, clothes, notebooks, papers, even drawings. The big man’s going to think a hurricane hit his place once he returns to his room.

John nods, impressed. “Ok, all cool with me.”

There’s not a big fuss as John is seen with Barsad carrying his things to his new quarters. Some turn to look, but the vast majority ignore them. They've grown use to his presence, and now that the novelty is off, he's just another body hanging around. Only that he’s a tourist and that doesn’t seem like something that happens every day. Further so, he knows he’s an uncanny occurrence in the temple, yet they seem to want to ignore the fact. Or perhaps they are forced to?

Turns out the common bedrooms are nothing like Bane’s chambers at all (no big surprise there). There are ten of them, each with a double row of cots and individual shelves for books, chests and a candle lit lamp on every nightstand. The room assigned to John is located on the east wing of the temple, something he appreciates because that assures him the sunlight will heat his room from the early hours of the day. John looks around the new place. He follows with his eyes the patterns of the wooden columns all the way up to the roof with crisscrossing designs. His cot is placed by one of the small windows, and he suspects it’s going to be chilly at night because there’s not a single piece of glass isolating the cold from the temple, only wooden planks. But it’s okay; he’s living here for free. Every cot looks old, used and abused but comfortable. Instead of fur, there are heavy wool blankets made of colorful patterns, and there are embers on the central corridor to keep the bedrooms warm. Most of the inhabitants are gone for their daily practices, leaving a sepulchral silence behind.

John’s learning the fourth wushu form, and his progress is very good, according to Barsad. And that, translated into normal people’s language, means he’s doing just fucking great. Every morning he wakes up, practices in the arena with his teacher, then takes a break for lunch and afterwards, Arabic lessons. Later, chess, reading and walking around the temple with Barsad - as far as he’s allowed to go, which is not many places to be honest, but enough for him to let his soak up the exquisite art and the different sections of the place.

One of those days, he steps outside for the first time since his stay and he gets a grasp of the size of the massive temple. There are many octagonal rooms in different levels attached to the mountain, smoke comes out from the several chimneys and there are small square windows everywhere. He learns that even if the view is nice and should be enjoyed with big windows, it’s impossible to have such luxury because the cold would freeze them in seconds. So they sacrifice beauty for comfort.

John’s body is stronger than ever. He feels completely energized and fit. There’s definition in his muscles now, and he doesn’t feel like a bony chicken in comparison with the rest. He dons some clear contours on his biceps and legs that slightly stretch the sleeves of his t-shirts under his gi. His breathing has also changed. It’s not as hard as it was the first few days. His respiratory system adjusted to the height fairly well, while the exercises helped him to.

He’s also wearing more the clothes he got from the temple. The fabric isn’t that thick, but it's comfortable and keeps his body warm. Everything in this place seems simpler and you get used to it; sooner or later nothing seems too out of place or ridiculous. The upper part of his gi is brown, while the rest of the people in the temple are black (which makes them look like real ninjas), and Talia’s blue.

One cold morning, John’s suddenly awakened by the rushing movements around him. The trainees quickly change in more sophisticated, different robes and hurry to the main hall of the temple. John looks around confused and decides to get dressed quickly and follow them. Perhaps there’s a fire at the kitchens? His cop’s brain registers every emergency and his reflex is to reach for his cellphone on his pants, a missing part of his new routine. He sees them getting geared up with protecting vests and… swords.

This is not just training. They look like they are getting ready for a war.

He’s still adjusting the belt around his waist when he spots Talia standing at the top of the stairs of the main arena watching them with a stern look in her eyes. By deduction, John believes she’s commanded them to dress like this, with the purpose of something that must be carried out by the hands of trainees. He slowly approaches the woman, but just as he’s at about to talk to her, a heavy hand rests on his shoulder. Bane stops him and doesn’t say a word, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t want her to be disturbed. John retreats, standing besides the large man.

She starts talking in Nepalese and the trainees formed in neat rows answer with shouts during the pauses she makes on her statements. Their expressions are blank, distant, cold. They are no longer the polite men he used to see around him, joking and helping each other during practice. These are the men Talia commands, and John’s begins to understand what kind of power she possesses over them. She lifts her hand and they leave, marching towards the main entrance. When they’re gone, Bane removes his firm hand from John’s shoulder.

“Morning,” John says to Talia, who drastically changes her serious expression to a softer, kinder one, the one he’s used to seeing every time they talk.

“Good morning. I’m sorry if they woke you up, John.” Talia clasps her hands on her front, seemingly relaxed despite her previous behavior.

“It’s ok. Something happened?” he asks looking at the group leaving.

“League matters,” she answers, staring at her men walking out as well.

John blinks. “League…?”

Talia seems to consider John’s question and nods. “The time for us to have this talk has come. Walk with me, John.”  

They walk through crowded corridors and stairs going to the upper levels of the temple. As they approach Talia’s room, the decoration on the walls is richer and exquisite with art, like a queen’s chamber. They’re closely followed by Bane and John can almost feel the man’s steely eyes on his back. As they reach their destination, she opens the door for him. John looks at her, wondering if she’s serious about his entering a woman’s bedroom.

“Come.” There’s a brief look at her bodyguard. “Stay outside,” she orders, and John feels uncomfortable seeing her treating him almost like a dog. Bane simply nods and complies with her orders. The man gives him a final look before the door closes with a noiseless sway. “You’ve asked me before about the purpose of this temple. Well, I shall explain to you in detail,” she says, gesturing for John to sit on a chair.

John wonders what has changed since he first asked about all this and now, but he nods and decides to listen. Whatever it is, it’s important enough to keep a particular secrecy about it.

“We call ourselves The League of Shadows. We work in the darkness and anonymity to provide humanity real justice and keep the rightful balance in this world.”

“The League of Shadows,” John repeats. Sounds like the kind of name some comic nerds would use for their clique. And their mission sounds like it was taken from a fundamentalist group, but he decides to give her another chance to explain herself.

“Yes. We train to defend the weak and innocent from the corrupt.”

That simple? John leans back in his chair. “When you told me you trained to seek justice… I thought it was in a metaphorical way. This seems to be like something that requires a second consideration.”

Talia smiles. “No. It’s the full concept of our existence. Peace and justice.”

John licks his lips and looks at her with his head tilted. “And… what does that have to do with the armed guys who just left?”

“They went on a mission.”

John tries his best not to frown but Talia catches his look of doubt. Mission, weapons and justice don’t sound like something that entitles peace actually.

Talia moves to her oak desk and takes a small box with candy. “I have a sweet tooth,” she says and offers one to her guest. John looks at the odd gesture. They’re talking about peace, weapons and ninjas and she pulls out something like that? Perhaps she’s trying to divert the topic but she should know better by now that John’s not easy to convince. He doesn’t smile or laugh at the commentary and she must sense this, as she puts down the box and returns to her place. Her expression becomes unreadable. “There’s a town, not far from here that’s been attacked for years by a local clan. Every time the town gets close to their harvesting season, the clan comes and steals their food, rape their women and kill their children. Not only do they disrupt their economy, but their purpose is to abuse their lack of defenses and will to fight.”

John shakes his head, mouth agape. “And there aren’t local authorities to prevent this?”

“There are, but they don’t serve their purpose. They play deaf ears to the needs of their people, leaving them at the other clan’s mercy.”

John frowns at this. “So, what is the League going to do then?”

“Solve the problem.”

John makes a stop at her answer. When violence is involved, there aren’t many options left in the hands of those who go out carrying weapons to solve the problem. His ideas of fundamentalism among these people are somehow confirmed and there’s a chill creeping up his spine at this. “How?” he finally dares to ask.

“By providing real justice, of course. The clan will be attacked and put in place. The town’s grief will be over.”

John grimaces, “Isn’t that stepping over other people’s boundaries?” A reminiscence of his own country’s policy to invade others with the excuse of ‘saving them from themselves’ comes to his mind.

Talia crosses her legs and John’s sure she’s going to elude the question. “John, they have nothing to protect themselves. We’re not going to stand aside and watch more innocent people die. That’s the lowest kind of cowardice. If you do that, you’re worse than a murderer. You’re witnessing the crimes committed against everything you believe in and doing nothing to prevent it.”

At those words, John nods. He’s seen it many times in Gotham when he pressured his superiors to cut with their short-sightedness and follow a different path of investigation, but he was rejected every time. Then days later, another corpse would be found in the river. Same story, different ends of the planet. “So you’re like a special force?”

Talia chuckles. “You could catalogue us like that if you prefer.”

“And what would you call yourselves then?”

“A family who’s only purpose is to honor the integrity of the human race. We’re brothers in this,” she says and rests a hand over John’s arm. “I imagine you must have experienced it with your colleagues in Gotham.”

John assents, but he knows there’s a huge difference. He felt his partners were his brothers at first, but as he saw how little to nothing they cared about each other’s lives, he started feeling discouraged about minding people’s safety that weren’t worth the effort. Most were good men, trained to serve and protect the innocent but some were just there for the money, especially the one made on the side with drugs and prostitution. “Kind of.”

Talia reclines back against her chair. “We protect each other. We’re a unity, a part of a whole whose only purpose is to fight for those in need,” she says with a stoic posture.

…

The subject doesn’t come in days, but it remains in John’s head. He now sees the training lessons with different eyes, knowing that they’re working to kill and free the oppressed. But they’re taking justice in their hands overstepping the law’s jurisdiction and arbitrarily taking other’s lives in the process. Barsad explains to him that it’s very common to see this kind of action between tribes and cities in their country. John smells bullshit, but he’s not going to argue something he knows so little of. And so these people take it upon themselves to intervene wherever there would be injustice. They used to send emissaries to settle the problems between the parts, back in the days before Talia’s father (he was her antecessor before she took the command of the League) but as time went by, things became more violent, demanding actions to equal those to finish the conflicts.

If you see it from that point, it makes sense. In Gotham he has killed men who raped, murdered hundreds, and the sole and ultimate directive of his job was to keep peace and order.

It’s no different from what he used to do, and he feels the unity Talia speaks of in many attitudes they have with each other. A simple camaderie between peers when someone needs help to improve his technique, when the cookers decide to treat them all with a special delicious dish, when the teachers compliment their students (which is very rare, as John has witnessed).

Perhaps he’s developing a Stockholm syndrome of sorts to consider this and approve their methods so quickly. Which is somehow ridiculous considering that he’s not a prisoner. Right?

Training continues its normal pattern and nothing seems to change around him. He soon goes back to get used to seeing them as normal people, not special corps with the exception that he still is not allowed to talk to them.

Sometimes he sits at the stairs and watches them for hours just getting lost in their routines. He wonders what they are thinking about, if they miss their families or if they truly believe in their purpose to the League. The sense of unity is something he’s more aware of and understands. It feels alien to him. He feels like an intruder still and that annoys him. He sees these men compromise with something that’s worth risking their lives and become better men and John considers himself an insect. An insect who tried to kill himself once and waste the opportunity of becoming something useful for the rest of his days.

He needs to do something about it.

…

And the day comes.

“I’m in.”

Talia’s talking to one of her men, months since the talk and she was about to say something when John’s words caught her in the middle of her sentence. She looks at him with a poker face expression. “As much as I’d like you to join us, I believe that’s impossible, John.”

“Why?”

“It’s the toughest, hardest and worst thing you’ll ever face in your life. What you were back in Gotham has no comparison to what we do here.” She raises both eyebrows. “This is not a holiday inn.”

John looks at her defiantly, his back straight. “I am aware of that.”

“You might die during the trainings.”

“I know.”

Talia takes a moment to let John process the extent of his determination. “What made you decide this?”

John looks away to the rest of the men training with poles, hitting each other and enduring the pain. “I need a change.”

“As I said, this is not a-“

“I know. I want to do it. Join my… brothers, if you’ll allow me to do so.”

She seems unimpressed. “Prove it.”

John looks at her slightly confused, but aware of the meaning of her simple words.

“I told you there’s more in this life for you, John.”

John nods. This will probably be the last chance he’ll be allowed to prove himself to be of worth. A new beginning. A new reality, a new purpose, a whole new facet of himself he never explored in depth. “I’m ready.”

“I know,” she answers with a pat on his shoulder.

…

Letting him go back to the cold mountains is a proof of trust and a leap of faith from the League. John’s feet are killing him and he has blisters on his frozen fingers. He covers his face with the wool scarf as much as he can but the icy air hits him hard. He’s past the glacier and the river, heading north to the base of the south-west area of the Himalayan mountains to find something that, according to Talia, is required for every member to prove his true involvement with the cause and become a warrior of the League. The Himalayan Blue Poppy of the Genus Meconopsis, according to the books. He’s been walking for three days to the appointed place with nothing but a basic tent and food. Sometimes he feels like his lungs are going to collapse at any second with the ice penetrating them, but he keeps going, certain that this journey is more than just a masochistic walk into the most inhospitable lands of Nepal.

There are no towns or villages on the road. Nothing but rocks, ice and praying flags from time to time. It gets really hard to eat because his trembling fingers can barely keep the food in his hands. He thinks of warm places, the beach, the fireplace in Bane’s room and he mentally comforts himself with that as he shivers uncontrollably in the tent.

The sunsets are beautiful with the painted skies, gray clouds and the sun filtering through its smudged borders. And if in daylight the air is freezing, it’s mortal at night. The only aid Talia provided him are small pieces of dry meat containing an abundance of calories to fight the cold.

His legs are trembling and he’s about to give in. With the little strength he has, he spots something in the field of rocks not too far away from his spot and his frosted eyebrows rise in surprise.He makes himself move faster despite fatigue settling in; he needs to make sure his eyes aren't betraying him. He kneels, panting, unable to say a word. There, in the middle of nowhere, the blue flowers are growing in the most deserted place he’s ever visited in his life.

He wonders if he should take two of them, just in case he loses one but he thinks that’d be making him look as if he was showing off. The lack of oxygen must be affecting his brain. He feels as if he has just solved twenty Rubik's cubes in a row and after some moments contemplating the area, he starts walking back to the temple. 

He has learned his lesson fighting the cold, so when he finds wood to start a fire, he chops more to carry on his way just in case he can’t find any on his next stop. He ties the branches to his back causing the weight on his shoulders to almost kill his spine, but he keeps going. There’s little to no vegetation surrounding him and every means must be used wisely.

Feeling like he’s near to his death, unwilling this time, he knocks on the temple’s door once more and Talia is waiting for him, standing by one of the largest shrines. With trembling fingers, he hands the flower to her.

“Good,” she says coldly. “It’s time to start your training.”

John nods and rubs his tired eyes. He brushes the snow off his coat and aims to go to the rooms for some rest.

“You’re starting now,” she adds.

John turns to her, his eyes wide with shock. “I’ve just come back. I’m dead tired.”

“Injustice takes no pause. Go change and report to the rest of beginners group.”

He’s about to reply something when he sees Barsad by her side shaking his head. John nods and walks to the dorm, trying his best to recover his breath with every step. When he reaches his cot, he finds a black gi, a belt and a pair of pants. He smiles at this. They’ve obviously assumed John would make it. Not bad, not bad at all. He throws his satchel and dirty clothes by his cot and changes into the uniform he’s been provided. He takes a moment to decide whether to sit on the bed and rest some or go ahead and follow orders, because he knows he’s going to fall asleep and never get up. So he goes to the communal bathrooms and washes his face, hair and arms to look semi decent. His muscles are sore, but the adrenaline of knowing he has achieved something nearly impossible for any other mortal fires him up.

After asking an elder with hand gestures and speaking slow English, he finds the group. They’re already deep into the first kata, something John’s already good at it. He goes to the old man standing in front of them.

“I’m John, I’m starting today,” he greets.

The man gives him a side glance and returns his attention to his students. John assumes he has to join them and shut up because this is not high-school’s PE, so he moves to the back row and catches up. He can’t wipe his stupid smile out of his face as he moves with the rest of the students in perfect sync. He’s now part of this, part of the group he’s been watching from afar in wonderment. He doesn’t have to hide anymore. Oddly enough, it feels even better than when he was accepted at the academy in Gotham. There’s real effort here and his police training days look like lazy days for an amateur.

The next part is running in circles around the arena. He’s always been pretty decent at it, but doing it at this height is consuming. From time to time he makes a stop while his partners continue and he earns a dirty glance from the teacher, forcing him to continue no matter what. They run forty minutes and then he’s being taken aside.

There’s a vertical wooden plank with a thin neoprene cover at one extreme. The master stands in front of it, knees flexed and hits the plank with his fist. He gestures John to do the same and he imitates the posture. The teacher corrects his fist and the arched position of John’s tired back.

“Thirty minutes. Both arms.” he says.

John closes his eyes in resignation. His legs are aching and trembling from the mountain, the katas and running, but he nods anyways. The man leaves to meet the rest of the students and John starts hitting the pad slowly. His back is killing him from this position and his calves are crying in pain. He swallows when he sees blood staining the neoprene and his arm shakes every time his knuckles hit the wood.

He ends up with both hands bloody, and they sting at the contact with water in the cold sink. He looks at himself in the mirror and the puffy bags under his eyes are about to explode. His legs betray him and he falls as if a puppeteer has cut the strings keeping him up. He lays on the stone floor and doesn’t move for almost an hour. Forcing himself up, he leaves back to the rooms or else he’ll fall asleep in the bathroom. He doesn’t care about taking a shower and goes straight to bed, skipping dinner. It takes him less than a second to fall asleep, loving the warmth of his cot.

…

Someone shakes his shoulder. John opens one eye to see a man in his late twenties with a rich shade of dark skin and bright caramel eyes staring down at him, “Uh… good morning?”

“Wake up. Breakfast’s in a minute,” he says as he stands up and points to the door with a nod.

John frowns and looks at his wristwatch. It’s five A.M. Sleeping all day in Bane’s room has been really bad for his habits.

He has breakfast with the rest in a room with large tables and from the corner of his eye he can see some people whispering with each other and looking at him. He guesses they must do that with every new trainee. He eats his porridge and a bell informs them that the time to start the day has arrived.

Today they have fighting lessons. He doesn’t dare ask but it doesn’t seem like it’s from a particular martial art in general. The teacher, who speaks perfect English, takes him apart from the others with another man, way younger than John and thinner. The man tells him to put his guard up and John does as he was taught in the academy, but it seems like it’s not that simple. His wrists are wrong, his shoulders are off and his legs shouldn’t be too apart from each other. The teacher corrects this and orders John to throw the first punch to his opponent. He does, not so hard and the teacher tells him to do it again, annoyed, which gives John the hint that he has to hit him harder. His opponent dodges again and the teacher seems pleased with the technique.

Apparently all the teachers believe John needs to perform better, so they make him do extra hours of training on his own, repeating everything he did during the day. Fuck me, he thinks as he runs around the arena.

The day finally comes when he has to train with Bane. John decides to stand in the second row, close but not enough. As expected, Bane doesn’t look at him, he just looks at his students in general. He starts explaining one movement with one of the men and they all repeat it. When John’s in the middle of the repetition, he notices a furtive glance towards his direction from the massive man, but perhaps it was just his imagination.

When the class is over, Bane calls his name and John throttles to meet him.

“You need extra work. Your body is weak,” he says.

John doesn’t twitch at this comment. He knows he is, doesn’t really need to be told. Especially after all those days he’s spent in bed doing nothing. “What do you want me to do?”

“Scrub the floors of the corridors. Two hours.”

John blinks, not sure if he heard well, “Excuse me?”

“You’ve heard me. Start now,” he says and walks away.

John watches him go with his mouth half open. This isn’t some Karate Kid movie, but apparently he has to do it anyways because Bane seems dead serious about it. He glances at his brothers who are chuckling, hinting at him that yeah, Bane’s not bullshitting him. John sighs and grabs one of the boy’s attentions to ask him for the cleaning elements to do as he’s told. Now he understands why everything looks so pristine at the temple. Weaklings like him are in charge of the cleaning and polishing the wooden floors, wipe the floors, change the bed sheets at the dorms and do the laundry. A week goes like this, and Bane only stares at him, unmoved and silent. John understands that complaining and thinking about it won’t do and he does as he’s ordered. He ends up worn out every single day and tries his best to not avoid dinner any longer because he’ll be consumed and he already lost some pounds. He can tell because his waist is smaller when he ties the belt around his gi.

“Climb stairs for an hour,” Bane commands.

“What?!” John looks at him incredulously.

Bane throws him a menacing glare. John’s expression softens into something closer to fear but quickly changes into resignation. He was out of place through and through. Not only to one of his teachers but also to the man who saved him from his death. He nods and goes away.

His calves are like rocks by now, as well as his thighs. He could open a can of beans with them just by smashing it with his legs. He notices that no one else is climbing stairs like he does. He climbs them up and down every day and his confused fellows look at him in the process. Bane asked him to do this to him alone. I’m special! He sarcastically tells himself. Great.

The first week destroys John’s body and after pushing himself too much, he earns a pretty nasty lumbago that keeps him immobilized for a week with doctor’s orders.

Some days later, everybody’s leaving and John starts making his way to the stairs.

“Stay.”

John turns around to look at Bane. The man is standing in the central arena and is looking away. John steps closer, facing him. He has a perfect excuse to study him openly now and Bane seems to be aware of it. He returns his attention back to John and remains silent for a couple of minutes.

“I’ll begin to instruct you on _Muay Thai._ ” Bane gestures John to stand in front of him and rests his hands on the straps of his vest. “Muay Thai techniques consists the use of head, fists, elbow, knee and feet as weapons. There’s a variety of methods to attack. There’s a basic vocabulary you must learn to follow my instructions and the other teacher’s as well.”

John listens carefully and nods, looking as Bane starts pointing to parts of his body. His finger close but not touching, like an anatomy class or as if he was about to butcher him.

“ _Mud_ means fists. _Sork_ , elbow. _Khao_ , knee. _Tao_ , foot.” Bane steps forward and suddenly grabs one of John’s hands. He wraps his fingers around his, curling John’s hand into a fist.

“Mud,” he says.

John stares down at the warm, huge hand wrapped around his bandaged, bloody one. Bane squeezes for a minute and lets go. He taps or points the rest of his body parts and John rubs his fingers together absentmindedly. The contact wasn’t father-like but enough to impress him. The large man doesn’t look like someone who’d touch others out of the blue. Perhaps he does with other students and John’s making too much of a fuss about it.

“Position yourself to throw a punch,” Bane orders.

John does the classic punching stand, fists up to the level of his chest, legs apart.

“Wrong.”

_Surprise, surprise._

“Chin straight forward and down, your shoulder must be right to your chin,” Bane moves behind John and presses a palm over his shoulder.

John clears his throat. “Right.”

“Your jaw must be thrown when your opponent is lined up with your left foot.” The man moves back to the front and shows him the right position. John looks at Bane’s fists and then down to his legs, his powerful clothed thighs and his feet. To his surprise, he finds out that Bane’s not using combat boots but regular ones, like shoes with a plain sole. He looks up at the man’s shoulders. So he doesn’t wear platforms of any kind. He’s naturally _HUGE._

The first punch lays on Bane’s chest, not hard at all, just marking the spot. John stares at the wide chest imagining that hitting him must be like hitting a rock. At the second punch, Bane grasps his fist in mid air and lifts it to his jaw. “Focus,” he orders.

John nods, embarrassed. He aims for his jaw this time and barely reaches his throat.

“When you can’t aim to your opponent’s face, you must use your arm like a projectile. The kick starts with your arm curled against your waist. Twist and extend your arm in a perfect horizontal line. Also, flex your knees just an inch.”

John sighs deeply and tries to assimilate everything the colossal man is telling him. After three times, Bane nods in approval. “That is chok. The punch,” he says.

The rest of their private class goes normally, John following Bane’s instructions word by word and the masked man’s apparently pleased with the student’s progress. That’s what he’d like to think, anyways because he haven’t forgotten about the days cleaning floors and washing sheets, implying that he’s still a toy to play with. This isn’t like a yoga class where he can ask twenty times about a position and be a lazy ass about learning. Bane’s time has its price; not listening to him means more extra training.

An hour later, he’s released and sent to lunch. There are three breaks in the day, one for lunch, another one for reading, studying, playing board games, talking or whatever they feel like doing, and then another one for dinner. The rest of the time is filled with training, training and in case you were wondering, more training.

He still hasn’t made any ‘friend’ outside Barsad, and the rest of his bedroom partners seem to ignore his existence as a whole. From the end of the opposite row to his, he catches a glimpse of the boy who greeted him some days ago in Bane’s bedroom. The boy smiles at him and quickly turns his gaze away, ashamed or embarrassed, John can’t say.

Lying in bed, John examines the few bruises he sports on his arms and legs. Not bad for a beginner, he’s seen worse. The only way to ignore the pained limps is by reading. Barsad gave him two of the many books he’ll have to read: Long Scroll of the Treatise on the Two Entrances and Four Practices by Bodhidharma and The Five Animals by Hua Tuo, both deeply related to Wushu, its origins, tactics and philosophy. John lays on his stomach on the cot and reads:

_The entrance of principle is to become enlightened to the Truth on the basis of the teaching. One must have a profound faith in the fact that one and the same True Nature is possessed of all sentient beings, both ordinary and enlightened, and that this True Nature is only covered up and made imperceptible by false sense impressions._

One and the universe, basically. John immediately thinks and doesn’t really want to admit of his selfish determination to end up with everything not so long ago. He remembers his somber self back then in Gotham, the endless days until he got his plane ticket to Nepal. The emptiness taking every part of his body and yes, it used to hurt like a bitch. He wasn’t part of anything. He was an island in the dark sea. That is, until he found the temple. John feels foolish for indulging in such sappy feelings and thoughts, but truth be told they bring him to the answer to his question about what he's doing there.

One and The True Nature.

He and life as a whole.

The temple has given him the impulse to go beyond his limitations once more, this time for different reasons. He’s not welcoming death anymore.

He has defeated it.

Twice.

He has accepted the Truth, and the truth is that he’s not here just to breathe and pass time but to do something for others. A half-baked reason to live, perhaps. But a decent one. At least, that’s the reading he gets from this. Perhaps it might change in the future, perhaps not. But so far, that’s the only thing he can see right now. Like Talia said not so long ago _‘I know you understand this, even if your mind denies you to see it right now,_ ’ and she’s probably right about it, in more than one aspect of his state of mind right now.

…

“So, there are two categories: the entrance of principle and the entrance of practice. The entrance of practice has five of them and-“

Barsad whacks John with a rolled paper. “Four.”

John covers and frowns. “Four?”

“Yes. Four.” The man picks up the book and opens it at a specific place. He points to the sentence. “Four.”

“Oh yeah, four. Uh…”

Barsad rolls his eyes. “You don’t remember them.”

“I do.” John closes the book and looks up at the ceiling. “The practice of retribution of enmity is the first one. It’s about, er…when you’re suffering and you have to think how long have you gone and how many enemies you’ve gained.  And your suffering is product of your karma or something.”

“ _My present suffering constitutes the fruition of my past crimes and karma, rather than anything bequeathed to me from any heavenly or human being. I shall accept it patiently and contentedly, without complaint,_ ” Barsad quotes without pause. “You forgot the most important thing: accepting it.”

“Well, yeah. But that wasn’t in your book.”

Barsad laughs. “I assure you that Bodhidharma wrote it down, not so far from where you left.”

“Perhaps.”

John continues his debate with his friend when he spots Bane walking in their direction. These are not practice hours and that makes John have funny feelings in his stomach about it. Is he going to go to square one and wipe floors?

“You’re next,” Bane says looking at Barsad.

“In a minute. I’m almost done here,” he answers.

The tall man turns to look at the cover of the book and there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. John thinks he’s probably smiling behind the mask. It’s strange to see him showing a tiny bit of humanity for a man who looks like a killing machine. “The entrances?” he asks.

“Well, yeah.” John scratches the back of his neck. “I’m stuck with the practice of the absence of craving.”

Bane sits by John’s side at the bench. “What can’t you understand?”

“Everything?” John makes a pained expression, wondering if the man’s going to snap his neck for his ignorance. “How is a person enlightened by the Truth?”

“He pacifies his mind in inactivity and accepts whatever happens to him. He understands that all existence is nonsubstantial, he is without desire.” Bane looks down at John’s hands on the book. “No cravings means no problems.”

John licks his lips. “You mean, not needing worldly belongings?”

“Wanting them. Not needing them,” corrects Barsad.

“And how are you supposed to live then?” asks John.

Bane tilts his head. “With what you’ve been provided. That’s the way we’ve been living for centuries in this temple, little bird.”

John’s eyes shoot upwards at the nickname. What drove the man to call him like that? It could be offensive, like if Bane’s considering him something frail and little. He must think John’s not going to last too much and he’s probably right but he’s not going to give up that easy. But his voice wasn’t sarcastic, leaving John in a cloud of doubt. “Oh…” he realizes he’s been an idiot not thinking about this. “And what about-“

“I’ll keep your students for another twenty minutes, brother,” Bane says, interrupting John. The bearded man nods. Bane stands up from the bench and throws a final look at John, one he can’t be certain of. Disillusion or anger? Perhaps both. The man struts away, not looking back.

John looks at the man’s back as he walks away. “Not a fan of socializing, mm?”

Barsad takes the book from John’s hands and flips some pages. “Not your mentor for you to discuss things with him.”

“Why is everything related to him forbidden? I mean, first I wasn’t allowed to speak, now I can’t ask him questions.”

Barsad snorts. “You think we’re doing this on purpose? Rules are rules, John.”

“But I can talk to you about this and discuss it!”

“Because Talia appointed me to teach you first,” Barsad answers. “That makes a special bond between us. You’re not my pupil but you’re close to it.”

John reflects on this. He’s seen men followed by younger ones closely behind and he was wondering if there’s something he’s missing on the dynamics of this place. Barsad told him that from time to time, a master decides to take a student under his wing to personally teach him, protect him like an older brother or a father. Or a friend, in John’s and Barsad’s case. And who better than a friend to guide you through a storm? They’re not ‘officially’ bonded but this is as close as he’ll ever get to one, because no one would take an outsider like him (he still feels like one, anyway) as a protégé. It’s like going back to what a father teaches his son, leaving him alone to become a man by fulfilling certain social responsibilities and be a respected member of society. This doesn’t apply here. He can see that they are always helping each other. The training never ends, even among elder members he can see that they are still forcing their bodies to excel in their performance and find something close to perfection, which John supposes they believe it will never be achieved.

Only time will tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **References:**
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> \- _[Muay Thai:](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muay_Thai)_ a martial art from Thailand. It's a full-contact sport in which body conditioning has a great importance.


	5. Love - Hate

“If you fall, no one will retrieve your body.”

Bane’s words echo in the large room, announcing the prelude of a very dangerous adventure, his first one outside the temple as a trainee. In comparison to other days, today’s not as cold and there are a few clouds up in the sky which was a blessing. He overhears a couple of young men saying that it could also be a curse because this won’t be a walk in the field but instead part of a training to make them get used to walk through rough surfaces, and with the sun on top of their heads for long hours, it will get nasty. Regardless, John prefers the heat to the cold, even if he is getting used to it. When he was a boy he liked to go to the beach and spend all day there. In the city he loved biking in the park with the sunlight caressing his skin. So a bit of sun on the mountains will be good for him.

The troupe leaves through the heavy doors of the temple, and many cover their eyes to shield themselves from the brightness of the day, so used to the dim light inside. Bane goes first and turns to look at the group. “Move. Now.”

Having Bane as their instructor is quite an event in John’s experiences in this place. He didn’t think he’d have him as a teacher so fast, especially when the first group of trainees require someone with patience to correct their mistakes, even if the idea, linked with Bane sounds ridiculous. He thought Bane was like the top of the hierarchical pyramid in which you’d only earn access to him once you were a skilled warrior, but it seems like he’s more ‘earthly’ than what he imagined. John's eyes follow him in his rustic leather jacket, his back broad and steps heavy as he leads the group.

The first mile is a piece of cake, of course, but as they approach the second, the terrain turns rockier as they ascend, and he starts panting, trying to keep up with the group’s pace. The path becomes narrower and he can feel the rocks sharpening under his combat boots. During the trip, one of his partners slips and almost falls down the precipice. No one stops to help him and John frowns in disgust before catching the young man’s hand and helping him up back onto the road. He’s one of them, after all. Where’s the ‘brother’ philosophy here he wonders? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to help and the other man had to do it on his own to learn. But it’s hard to learn if you’re dead after falling 5.000 feet. No one seems to be annoyed by the gesture nor do they congratulate him for, well, saving a fellow’s life.

The view is truly wonderful, but he doesn't have the time to appreciate it with the constant push behind him to continue. They aren't allowed to stop, continuing on with their walk only with the aid of a rope, a hook, and their strength to climb. His hands are getting rougher and more calloused as time passes, his knuckles don’t bleed as much when he hits the standing planks to strengthen his fists, and yet there’s still softness in some parts of his body, a reminder of a life long past and gone.

There are passages where they can hardly move between the walls of rock. In some places they have to help each other climb with the aid of a rope. A couple of moments later he loses count of how many feet and miles they've walked when he overhears some laughter and mumbling behind him. When John turns around, he realizes that they are sneering and softly laughing at him. He abruptly stops and faces a particular man who seems very amused at something. “What did you say?”

The other man, no taller than him and with intense green eyes, chuckles and shakes his head before continuing his path. John’s hand rests on his shoulder to stop him. “I asked you something.”

The silent man bites his upper lip and sighs deeply. “That even a baby goat climbs better than you.”

It’s amusing that even if the whole population of the temple knows that he was found almost dead at one of the highest mountains in Nepal, he could think something like that. “Really. And how did you climb when you popped out from your mother, then?”

Barsad’s classes have helped a little because John evades the first punch and the second, but not the third. He starts replying to the hitting but there has been a slight miscalculation on the man’s strength and speed, making him fall on the rocky ground. Still, he doesn’t give up and locks his legs with the other’s knees to force him to fall, allowing John to straddle him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

The green eyed man sits up and headbutts John’s. By this time, the entire group has stopped and Bane as well, watching the scene. “You are both delaying us. You may continue your little game down the abyss,” he grumbles before turning around to carry on as if nothing has happened.  The rest of the group follows him like ducklings after their mother.

Still rubbing his forehead, John nods and the other man pushes him away to stand up. The file behind both continues walking and the rest of the men throw dirty looks at him. _Fuck them._ He can do better than this. He’s not in this group to act like a high-schooler being teased by his mates.

They make a stop at about six thousand feet from the top so they can recover before going back. John takes a moment to drink some water from the bottle in his leather backpack, and sits on a rock, finally allowed a moment to enjoy the view. The temple’s down there, a small spot in the immensity of the valley by the mountain, surrounded by the lake and the glacier. From working at the office to climb with a bunch of warriors in Nepal, it's quite a change. His life has definitely taken an unexpected turn that he’s still digesting. It feels like he’s spent years at the temple when it’s merely been four months.

“You, baby goat. Come here.”

John diverts his attention from the landscape to look at one of the men sitting by a rock not far away from where he is. The one who mocked him is among them, but the words came from another one, one who’s offering him a kind smile, not a sarcastic one. “That’s not my name.”

“Okay, not-my-name, come join us if you want to fight the cold.”

John frowns and hesitates before doing as he’s requested, mostly because he’s more than sure that they are going to pick him all together and throw him down the mountain or else play a prank on him. He looks at the end of the group where Bane’s resting one foot over a sharp rock and looking into the distance, as if he was gone, lost in thought. With the risk of being fooled again, he approaches the merry group.

“Don’t be afraid, baby goat. We’re not going to eat you.” The man who speaks is a couple of years older than the one he got into a fight with. He has hooded dark eyes, wavy long hair and gives John the sensation that he’s not as a confrontational as the first one. That man is sitting beside him. “That’s Vijaya, if you were wondering,” he says cocking his head to point towards his rival. “I’m Ghalib.” He extends his hand to shake John’s.

“John Blake,” he answers with a nod and returns the handshake.

“We know,” answers another in the group, a fair skinned Asian man who seems too invested into carving symbols in the snow. “Dingxiang,” he adds, nodding to the newcomer.

John nods as well and a small smile forms on his lips. Perhaps they are presenting themselves because they genuinely are just trying to be nice or… who knows, it’s all part of the curiosity about him. The westerner who was about to be just another body in the mountain. “How long have you all been staying here?”

“Two months,” answers Dingxiang.

“A week,” adds Vijaya, who doesn’t seem to be as talkative as the others.

“Almost three,” says Ghalib bending a small branch with his hands without breaking it. “It doesn’t matter, you are always a beginner until you learn how to really train with Bane. He’s here because our master was sent to rest yesterday. He’s way too old to continue doing this.”

“Some are really old. Do they train like all of you?”

Dingxiang clicks his tongue and nods. “You mustn’t rely on what you see. Master Gurab is 85 years old but he can kill you in a blink of an eye without moving from his spot.”

Longevity seems to be something common here, because he has seen many elderly men walking down the corridors conversing with each other or with a younger student. Maybe it’s the pure air, the lack of worries of ‘modern’ life. Because everything at the temple is old fashioned and their services basic so you can’t long for something as trivial as a cellphone. It’s not like he’d like to call anyone anyways. His friends must think he’s already dead. 

The stomping of Bane’s boots as he approaches make their group immediately stand up. He has an imposing presence, a mountain against those surrounding them and John stares up at him, even if the man ignores John and anyone for that matter. “We’re moving,” he announces and the whole pack stands up, with difficulty, to return back to headquarters.

By logic, the descending should be easier than the ascending. But things get complicated when the path is sheer, the pressure getting into your brain making you dizzy as well as making it difficult to focus on the way down, the lack of oxygen clearly affecting your senses. Bane decides to take a shortcut (which he suspects it’s not one, since it feels like it’s longer than the original path.) Many were close to falling and surely causing a disaster with the rest of their partners. But surprisingly, John makes it quite well when they arrive back to the temple. By the time they reach the main hall, it’s their recreational time, which John uses to pick up his books once more and sit by one of the embers to read.

Generally speaking, the teachings of the League date from at least a thousand years ago, along with ancient texts, and the most important way to study them is to discuss them with your peers in order to understand them. He has a 1979 edition of ‘ _Siege Defense’_ he took from the large library in the northern wing. It seems like it’s one of the most recent ones because as expected, they don't own editions from, at least 1999 on the shelves. Once he’s deep in thought, he feels a body sitting next to him. To his surprise, it’s the boy who smiled at him at the dorms and interrupted his conversation with Barsad back when he was staying in Bane’s room. He pretends not to notice him and continues reading. It seems that living with these people have made him one of them by focusing on what’s truly important.

“So, whatcha think about that?” the boy asks, and his voice surprises him. He uses English slang and he’s younger than he expected. Or so it seems so.

John smiles at him and shrugs. “There’s not much to debate, really.”

The new guest to the conversation has relatively wide shoulders for someone who’s probably around his early twenties but still keeps a boyish general appearance that would make you think that he’s lost, that he doesn’t belong to the League. “Well, uh, I don’t think that when the enemy goes to war with judgment and understanding he should advance with his stronger forces in military order.”

John listens and cocks his head, waiting for more.

“I mean, you wouldn’t be so stupid to throw everything you’ve got in the first attack. You’d reserve the best for the end.” The boy shrugs.

“But Aeneas Tacitus wrote it down it for a reason. He expects a counter-attack and so he’s ready to defend himself. That gives me the idea that he does have something else up his sleeve.” John looks down at the yellow pages of the book and skips a couple of pages. “I’m not very deep into this book but that’s what I can see from someone who’s written about everything, including social matters regarding your enemies.” 

“Yeah… Well, I’m Aatif,” he says with a broad smile, one that’s almost full of innocence and sweetness, a huge contrast with people in the place where they’re staying. It’s hard for John to imagine him training as hard as the others, with such fierceness and dedication. To know that this boy had to go to defend that tribe not long ago when the League went to ‘solve the problem’ is a fairly unexpected thought. He looks like someone John could break in two. But as he has seen before, appearances can deceive.

“John,” he answers, but he’s sure that like most of the people at the temple, he already knows that.

“You’re doing pretty good, you know.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Are you stalking me?”

Aatif’s eyes go wide and he looks at the floor, trying to hide his embarrassment. “No, no, I mean, you’ve been in the arena, we all saw it and you’re good.”

John chuckles and closes the book. “How so?”

“Well, you’re not crying. I’ve seen people crying from the pain the first weeks.”

That’s shocking news. He imagined that if one goes to freely be appointed to a group like this, one you should be ready for whatever's going to be thrown at them. Perhaps that’s his one-sided view on the matter because he’s seen them _before_ the moment in which he took the determination to join. He entered the League with previous experience. “It doesn’t mean that I might in the future.”

“Nah,” Aatif wraps his arms around his legs and sways. “You’re not the type.”

“And what’s my type?”

The young man looks at his knees and shrugs. “The survivor type.”

That’s something that fills John with pride, because he’s not a weakling but a fighter and coming from someone else’s mouth is more than enough to make him smile even if he’s still tired after their trip to the mountains. “Thank you.”

Aatif redirects his attention back to John. “Huh?”

“For that. Never mind. Can I ask you a question?” asks John, intrigued by a very specific matter.

“Shoot.”

Perhaps he’ll be upset by this but he doesn’t care, curiosity killed the cat. “How old are you?”

Aatif bites his lower lip and draws a playful grin. “Nineteen.”

“What the…” John laughs and looks at him shocked. “And what the hell are you doing in a place like this?”

Suddenly, the boy’s expression changes and his smile is not the same as before, melancholy takes over and his honey colored eyes go to the burning ember. “I was sent by my parents when I was five. I’ve lived here ever since. They wanted me to become something else, something different from them. They were… well, I suppose they still are, farmers. The League fed me, kept me warm, taught me how to read and think and accepted me as their son. And now I’m ready to return all that kindness towards me.”

When you want your kid to improve their life, you send them to painting classes, or ballet or Tae Kwon Do, not to some temple in a frozen hell to train and suffer like an animal. “Do you miss them?”

“My parents?” Aatif laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t even remember how they look like.”

It’s sad and John feels something akin to pity for him, but he also understands his parents’ determination. He’s thousands of miles away from western civilization and the rules regarding family, duty and society don’t apply the same as it was back home. They are radically different and even if he knows little of the people surrounding him he can tell that their values are something entirely dissimilar from what a ‘normal’ family in Gotham would follow. He remembers his days back at the orphanage and now he thinks they had twisted ways to show ‘love’ by making them feel like little poor creatures. This doesn’t happen at the temple. If you want to live, if you want to belong to a part of a whole, you must put yourself through _real_ hardships and deal with it. No one’s going to pity you and the only ‘help’ you’ll ever have is to learn what your teachers are explaining to you. John can see now how lucky he’s been of being treated specially those initial days in which he couldn’t move, and how much of a revolution he must have been for the population of the League. “But now you have friends here.”

The boy brushes his soft curls behind his ear. “I have brothers. Friends are fleeting companions. Brothers will be loyal to you until the day you die.”

The concept of friendship is alien to them. They are obviously radical on what they feel for each other. Either you are an enemy or a brother, there seems to be no gray point and that’s kind of dangerous from his perspective. “That’s good.”

“Why did you come here?” he asks, and John’s sure he’s not asking about going to the temple but rather taking his life.

“I lost someone I loved.”

“Your family? Friend?” Aatif asks, and John can see that he’s trying to adjust to his past beliefs.

“The man I loved,” he answers. It’s a topic he doesn’t want to discuss because of the way it all comes back to haunt him.

Aatif nods and licks his lips, tapping the floor with his toes. “But he’ll always be with you. When a brother dies, we don’t mourn him because we know he’ll always live in the air, among us. He’ll return to life because energy never dies. It’s always there, even if you can’t see it.”

John nods and forces a tiny smile. What can he say to this? Gradually, he’s reading the ancient texts on the matter but it’s hard to believe when you don’t have the warmth of a body next to you, caresses, smiles and kisses. When someone truly cares if you’re happy or sad, if you want to be alone or not. “I suppose.”

The boy looks up at some men, a bit older than him and stands up. “Gotta go, sorry. I loved talking with you!” and in a minute he’s lost in the crowd with his partners. John mentally corrects himself: _Brothers._

…

With the exception of reading or playing some games with the others, there's not much to do in the temple when you have spare time. Most gather at the main hall and talk while eating to pass the time, something light because in a couple of minutes they’ll have to train again. Others retreat to the dorms to take a nap and gain some energy for later, and many go to the library to read in peace. Others simply disappear, like Udar who insists that it’s none of John’s business and always takes different paths to get him lost when he tries to follow him. Perhaps he’s training or meditating alone, who knows. But there’s a face he hasn’t seen in a while and that’s Barsad’s. He hasn’t talked with the man in three days and missing his company is something he’s not used to, even if they bark to each other when they are together.

After some asking and directions given by one of the men from his dorm, John finally finds his way to the, what they call, ‘Meditation Room’. It’s a plain room with wooden benches built into the wall, a few vases with long incense sticks and a large canal with hot water going from one extreme of the room to the other, right in front of the benches. John steps inside and one of the men sitting opens his eyes with disgust on his face. He mumbles something in Nepalese and narrows his eyes. When he realizes that John doesn’t understand him, he sighs and shakes his head. “Shoes off. Wash your feet before entering.” By the man’s side, Barsad sits, bare-chested, legs crossed and hands on his knees with closed eyes.

John nods and does as he’s told and as soon as his feet touch the stone, he notices that it’s warm, as if it was some kind of sauna or something. He can see vapors coming from the water and considers what to do before testing its hotness because everything in this temple is dangerous, with the exception of the food and the showers. He sits beside Barsad and imitates his posture. “Good thoughts?”

The bearded man doesn’t answer.

John raises his eyebrows and looks at the wall opposite them in silence. “So, how’s your day been?”

“Silence,” the first man says obviously annoyed. “Meditation requires silence.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He sighs and continues staring at the wall, trying to find the appeal in sitting and doing nothing. Since he was a kid he was fairly hyperactive and often trouble for his keepers. That’s one of the reasons he had when he chose to be a cop: the action. He starts humming a Led Zeppelin song.

That finally catches Barsad’s attention and John can see a storm brewing. “Will you shut the fuck up?”

John turns to look at Barsad who finally opens his eyes and shakes his head. “Well, I was silent.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was. People meditate with music in my country.”

Slowly, the man turns his attention to John as he takes a deep intake of breath. “We’re not in your country and you’re being disrespectful and a pain in the ass.”

Pursing his lips, John shrugs and doesn’t break eye contact, just to see how further he can push the man.

Barsad clasps his face with both hands. “Since you ruined my meditation, I might as well teach you how to do it before you do it again. At least you’ll stay silent for a good while.”

John’s eyes go bright and he nods, licking his lips. “Show me, master.”

“Don’t you ever call me that again,” Barsad replies and returns to his initial position. “It’s not about closing your eyes and thinking of things. It’s the entire contrary. Your soul must be aligned with your existence and allow yourself to find the answers to the questions you’ve been seeking.”

“Right.”

“You don’t get it.”

Truth to be told, John once went to Yoga because one of his female friends insisted on it and the exercises were nice but when it came to meditation he didn’t find himself convinced of the effectiveness of closing your eyes for half an hour and wait for… nothing. “I would, if you spoke English.”

“Think of nothing.” Barsad’s toes move slightly, he must be tired of remaining in the same position for who knows how.

“Like… a white wall?”

“Not even that.”

“I don’t know how to think of ‘nothing’ then.”

“I’m strikingly surprised,” Barsad mutters and takes John’s hand. He places it over his chest and presses it against his heart. “Listen to this.”

The move is sudden and John wasn’t ready for that kind of contact at all. One thing is when they beat the shit out of each other during their training and another thing is when the touch is almost intimate. He’s normally affective with friends with he doesn’t know if he should consider Barsad a ‘real friend’ since the man hates him and they haven’t actually go out for a beer or watch soccer at home. Sure, the circumstances are entirely different but still, it feels odd to make a new friend, especially in a place where individuality is highly priced. And yet, _it does_ feel like a friendship. “And then what?”

“Focus on your breathing,” the man says, letting John’s hand go. “You’ll soon think of nothing and forget about everything else surrounding you.”

“Okay.” John would have thought of himself a shameless idiot who inexcusably interrupted the older man causing him to break trance, but he’s also glad that he can get to share something else with him even if the whole idea sounds ridiculous. John closes his eyes and tries to block all the sounds around him and forget that he’s being surrounded by semi-naked people who are doing nothing. Perhaps they are studying him like a bug, the white kid who looks absolutely out of place. But then he remembers Barsad’s words and realizes that he’s doing it all wrong. So he tries again and this time he truly focuses on his heartbeats. John presses a hand upon his chest and tries his best to not laugh at the idiocy of it but continues anyways. _Lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub_ … the rhythm continues the same until he notices that his limbs are more relaxed and his hand is down on his thigh. He forces himself to not open his eyes or else the magic will be broken and once he has the hang of it, he begins to focus on his breathing, as he’s been instructed. It’s true, there’s nothing in his mind, not a cloud or a green garden or anything. It’s black. Pitch black as night and silent. He wonders if the rest left and he’s alone but it doesn’t matter, this is different.

There in the background, suddenly a tiny light appears and John wonders if he’s dying again because it seems like something that would come from the movies. Brushing those thoughts away, he focuses on the spot and for some reason he feels a warm breeze caressing his cheeks. The light begins to increase in size and in a split of a second, he’s back in Gotham, at the edge on the roof of the Stock Market and it’s midday but he can’t hear a thing, not the honking of the cars down Plymouth street, nor voices surrounding him, nothing. It’s like when you watch the TV and it’s in mute. His eyes go wide and takes a step back to land on safer ground and it’s in that moment when he realizes he’s not alone.

Robert’s staring down at the street, beside him.

He knows this day. He’s using the same clothes when he…

“You have to stop doing it, you know,” his fiancé says, cerulean eyes not moving from the street far, far below their feet.

It must be a dream and yet if feels so real for John that he touches his gi, trying to feel the texture but nothing can be done about it. He’s wearing the temple’s clothes, not his old ones. “What… where…”

“Stop it.”

He won’t answer, he’s simply pointing out things John imagines might be related to cling to his memory. That’s the only thing he’s ever done since he died. “I can’t.”

“You can.” Robert, or John’s memory of him, rather, approaches the ledge and rests his elbows on it, looking at the horizon. “Stop torturing yourself.”

“You do that to me every day.” If this is not the real Robert, then who cares if he hurts his feelings?

“What I did was my own resolution. You have to make yours.”

“You destroyed my life.”

Robert’s memory remains silent and John thinks about the real Robert and what would he have done. Probably kiss him and beg him for forgiveness until John could stop crying. But he’s not crying and this Robert is cold, practical. “Stop looking for me.”

“I’m not,” John replies. He looks down at the floor and kicks an empty can of Coke.

“You’re building walls around these people.”

John looks up, furious. “And what the hell do you know about them?”

“I know they care about you.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, looking away. “What would you know?”

“ _He_ does.”

John stops complaining and his thoughts drift to the only face he can think of. Barsad’s not taking that place even if he’s the nicest person (and to consider he’s an asshole most of the time) he’s met. No. The face in his head is masked, steely eyes and beastly body. “Leave them alone.”

“Them? See, you’ve built a bond with them. Let me go.”

John grabs his head and shakes it. “What the hell is this, why are you talking to me like that?”

“I’m asking you to think about it.”

And he has wished that to happen, to let him go that is. In short time, of course. But he never achieved it because how do you cheat your heart to push behind someone’s memory imprinted in your veins when that person was all you had in this entire life? “I don’t have anyone, really.”

“You do.”

Like ashes, Robert’s form vanishes in the wind on top of the roof and his surroundings as well. In any other occasion, John would have cried his heart out and beg him to come back, but this is obviously… telling him something, something he has to admit and has purposely ignored since the day he committed suicide. The shapes of the building and Gotham morph into something darker and he’s back at the temple but he’s not awake because everybody looks frozen in time, fighting, eating, talking. They are all suspended like wax figures and no one moves. No one but Bane, who’s slowly approaching him. John stares up at him and both remain in silence. Perhaps this is all they need, a time for them alone in which John can see him in detail, try to pull the veil away and figure out what is it that attracts him so much. He’s not even handsome, not his type and still, he’s attractive in his own way. But there’s more than attractiveness there, there’s sadness in those eyes but also fire. The straps of his mask are tight and who knows for how long they have been there. Why does he wear a mask? Respiratory problems he imagines, because it reaches his nose. He must take it off to eat, but that must be surely done in private, away from prying eyes. He restrains himself from reaching out and touch his cheek, the patches of skin he can reach between the design of the mask. He doesn’t. This is not real and he’d rather do this the original Bane, made of flesh and bone, the human counterpart of this fantasy, the one Robert knows about and understands as something John wishes to approach. What for, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he’s intrigued by this man’s life, how did he end up in a place like this, what’s the reason behind being especially distant with him. How did he transform in someone who seems to be a machine, far beyond his appearance... barely human.

But human, after all.

Eyes shoot open and he slowly returns to reality by looking at the stone wall in front of him. He directs his attention to his side only to find himself alone and he pinches his thigh to corroborate that he’s back to the real life. Perhaps that’s not meditating but imagining things, daydreaming. Or perhaps mediation is your mind telling you the truth you’re avoiding. Perhaps the characters in his head are part of what he’s trying to figure out and they were set the way he remembers them. Robert on the roof, Bane at the Temple, him in the middle. John’s legs hurt when he leaves his sitting position and exits the Meditation Room. He makes his way to the dorm and some of his training partners are gathering around one of the cots, very excited.

Aatif leaves the group and waves at him. “Hurry up, there’s a celebration tonight!”

John scratches his hair and the back of his neck. “What?”

“It’s Ghalib’s birthday. Come on, get something nice and come to the arena.” The boy offers him a smile and returns to the group, which is very chatty.

After such a strange episode alone, perhaps a little party might lift up his spirits. John picks up a couple of clean clothes and takes a shower. Even there, the other men are laughing and quickly talking about what he imagines must be the party to be held at night. John looks down and rests his palm over the stone wall as the water rivulets down his hair, which is slowly growing. He reflects on Roberts’ words back then. He still wonders if that’s what meditation is about or if he’s just fallen asleep and had a strange dream. He finishes rinsing himself from the rustic soap and goes back to the dorms to get changed before heading to the main hall.

It looks very different from what he’s used to see. The men sit around a bonfire in a large circle and Ghalib among others is sitting on a special rug with colorful designs and five different plates around him with delicious dishes. He can distinguish some of them, such as _Āmli Achār_ , relish made of Himalayan hog plum, yak ribs, dried plums and something in a bottle that is, most probably, alcoholic. John approaches the ‘birthday boy’ and hugs him while the man pats his back and thanks him for coming in Arabic, which he can understand from the little he knows by now. Ghalib pats him to sit beside Dingxiang and he starts picking the ribs from the plate in front of him.

It all looks delicious and each man has at least three dishes in front of them. It’s a feast and it’s strange that they could allow something like this in a place where they are used to be so cold and hard with their students. Perhaps this is a special occasion because Ghalib is a good warrior.

“Do you usually get to do this?” he asks to Dingxiang beside him.

“Not really. Only every three months, and we gather all those whose birthdays took place during that period. For example Ghalib, Aman, Tsarif and Pravir.” At the sound of his name, the last man turns to look at them and nods holding a glass of the mysterious beverage.

“You’re not doing bad, baby goat,” Pravir observes before taking a sip of his drink.

“Hey,” Dingxiang interrupts. “He’s John now.”

The new man draws an ‘o’ with his mouth and raises both eyebrows, as if he has just made a discovery that will change everything. “Well, you’re doing well, John.”

“Thank you.”

“You probably don’t believe me because our instructors must be the ones to say it, but I’ve seen people stronger than you falling and not being able to keep up with the rest.”

John finishes munching on a piece of meat before answering. “Falling?”

“Yes. They go to exile. One from which they never return.”

John doesn’t ask more about the topic because the mere idea of being thrown away into the cold without anything sounds like death to him. One thing is to go with basic supplies like the ones he was given to find the flower and another very different is to move through the Himalayan Mountains on your own. And the last sentence doesn’t sound like he would survive for long.  “I see.”

The sound of drums and a flute take him out of the conversation and Pravir starts clapping along with the rest. John smiles and claps as well as one of the men stands up and dances around the fire, imitating the moves of a girl. They all laugh and John takes a look at his surroundings, realizing that these men can be dead serious in what they do, in their convictions and resolutions but they can also be human from time to time and total dorks. He laughs softly at this and claps as well. He notices that this is a trainee-only gathering because none of their instructors nor Barsad are with them and he supposes it’s fine this way because that helps to separate the waters. You can’t get drunk with a man who’s supposedly going to shout at you the following day if you fuck up.

Ghalib serves John a small glass of what they are drinking and John raises his hand. “Wait, wait, that’s enough!”

“Not tonight, my friend.” The other man and the rest laugh as John’s glass is filled to the top. “It’s Raksi and you can’t say no.” The Arabian man winks at him and pours more for himself. “Let’s make a toast!” he says out loud in English, raising his glass to encourage the others do the same. John appreciates this as a good gesture since he’s never seen someone else do the effort to talk with him in English but Barsad, Talia and those she ordered to do so. Ghalib takes his time thinking about something, like the appropriate words to express himself with and finally he goes with something simple, something that he almost murmurs as the dark eyes look into the fire. “For the League.”

The men shout and toast with each other before drinking the Raksi all the way until their glasses are empty.  John takes a sip. The liquid burns his tongue and he swallows just to not be rude with his friends but the alcohol slowly warms his throat until the stinging sensation disappears. Considering the cold outside, it’s not rare that you could find strong beverages like these.

“I thought Muslims didn’t drink alcohol,” he says to Ghalib, almost shouting over the loud sound of music.

His companion approaches him, speaks into John’s ear. “There’s no religion here but the League’s.”

It is convenient. For so many different people coming from all over the world, it’s not strange to have that kind of politic. It must be one of the many steps you have to accept to become a member, and one of the many tests to overcome in the process.

John catches a still figure in the line of men surrounding him. It’s Aatif who’s staring at something, in a deep concentration. Following the line of his point of view, John ends up looking at someone resting near his side against one of the columns. It's Barsad. He returns his gaze to the boy only to notice that there’s warmth in his eyes and a faint smile upon his lips. Back to Barsad, the man leaves his spot and heads upstairs, obviously giving him a cold brush off. Discouraged, Aatif looks down to his feet.

After four glasses of Raksi, John’s babbling in different tongues and his companions laugh with him. He’s making an ass out of himself but he doesn’t care, this is the most fun he has had in months. Exhausted, he lies down on his back and stares up at the large planks that serve as blinds in the daytime. He feels weightless, and his cheeks are burning. In the distance he can hear the drums and the laughter, and he smiles. John rests his cheek on the floor and closes his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he could take a small nap before continuing to party. As he opens them and focusing on the shape not too far away, he sees Bane walking as if he was  about to head towards the kitchens, but looking in his direction. Unconsciously, he smiles with half-lidded eyes. Unexpectedly the large man stops, and doesn’t move from his spot. Their eyes lock for a good while as John moves to fully lie on his side, directly staring at him. Bane’s made of stone and remains in the same state with his stoic position, observing him emotionless, or at least that’s what he can distinguish from the little that can be revealed of the visible parts of his face. John knows that he’s thinking of something else, perhaps he’s been meditating too. And that’s the precise moment in which John realizes, in his inebriated state, with the music blasting his ears and surrounded by strangers that things don’t seem as easy as he thought a while ago despite his hardships and pain, that it takes courage and determination to reach what you want. And that the masked man isn’t just another simple man.

And so he isn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _References and notes:_  
> **  
>  Just in case anyone's interested, here are the meanings of the names of John's partners: : Vijaya (Nepalese for "victory"), Pravir (Nepalese for "brave"), Dingxiang (stability and fortune in Chinese), Ghalib (Arabic for "conqueror") and Aatif (Arabic for "joyful").  
> * Raksi: is a traditional distilled alcoholic beverage in Nepal and Tibet, tastes similar to sake.


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